TV versus Reality
by Ross7
Summary: Is the nightmare real? Or is reality a nightmare? James Rockford comes to the aid of Station 51. Or does he? An EMERGENCY!/The Rockford Files Crossover fic'.
1. Chapter 1

The following story is a crossover between "EMERGENCY!" and "The Rockford Files".

Disclaimer:  
I lay no claim to any of the main characters and I gain nothing financially by writing this…da-arn!

"**TV versus Reality"**

**By Ross7**

**Chapter One  
**

In the hospital corridor outside Rampart General Hospital's ICU room 604, a uniformed maintenance worker knelt before an exposed electrical outlet. His partner had just gone off to fetch a pair of wire strippers and, until his return, work on the shorted out sockets was halted.

The waiting man exhaled a sigh of sheer boredom and glanced at his watch. A frown appeared on his previously impassive face as he realized he was about to miss his favorite TV program—and he **never** missed 'The Rockford Files'.

The man cursed under his breath and sat back on his heels. Now he'd have to wait for the rerun. Suddenly something occurred to him which caused his countenance to brighten—considerably. "Just 'cuz I can't watch it don't mean I can't listen to it," he realized aloud and started getting stiffly to his feet.

The worker stretched and yawned and then disappeared into the nearest hospital room.

He reappeared—just moments later—and re-assumed his wait, leaving the door behind—and beside—him slightly ajar.

The now quite pleased looking workman stood there with his right hand tapping his holstered tools, and his right foot tapping the polished hall floor, to the rather catchy beat of the program's theme music.

There followed, several messages from the show's sponsors, extolling the superior qualities of their brands of after-shave and aspirin.

The sounds of a noisy nightclub came drifting out of the room and then gradually faded, replaced by traffic noises. A car door opened and closed. It's engine came to life and its tires squealed off down some unseen street.

A minute later, the car's engine died. Planes could be heard, landing or taking off, in the distance. The car's door slammed again, along with its trunk. The sound of footsteps on pavement echoed out into the hallway.

"Harry?' a man called out.

"Ready whenever you are, Mr. Nardis!" Harry called back.

"Good. Then let's get out of here!"

The sound of a large door sliding on rails was heard, followed by more banging doors and finally the click of seat belts.

Harry radioed the control tower for permission to take off. He received clearance and started taxiing out to the runway. The sound of the plane's engine grew steadily louder and then was joined by the sound of two or more racing car engines—and gunfire!

The plane's engine noise faded and the cars screeched to a halt. Someone's hand slammed against one of their dashboards.

"Mister Gardino isn't going to like this," a man said quietly, following someone else's muffled curse.

"Uh-oh," Harry suddenly muttered over the plane's droning engines. "We're losing fuel—fast! We're going to have to land right now!"

"No!" Mr. Nardis screamed.

"We don't have any choice!" Harry shouted back. "We either land or we crash!"

"Okay," Mr. Nardis relinquished. "Find a clearing."

"That's dangerous enough with two tires!" a rather horrified Harry reminded him.

"Yeah? Well it's a whole lot safer than that airport back there!" Mr. Nardis reminded him right back.

"There are too many power lines!" Harry deduced. "We've got to go back!"

"No! Keep looking!" Mister Nardis insisted.

"We're running on fumes!" the pilot informed his stubborn passenger.

"There!" Nardis determined. "That field along that highway! That looks plenty big enough!"

The plane's droning engines began to sputter. "It had better be!" Harry declared. "Cuz' we're going down!"

The hospital maintenance man cringed at the sound of a crashing plane.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Inside ICU's room 604, the body in the bed stiffened and a grimace appeared on the un-bandaged portion of the patient's pale face.

The workman wasn't the only one listening.

LA County Firefighter Paramedic John Gage tried—in vain—to make some sense out of the disturbing sounds, but the thoughts that were reeling through his foggy, groggy brain remained disjointed. The patient groaned and gradually slipped back into semi-consciousness.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The next thing John knew, he was seated at the dinner table in LA County's Fire Station 51 with the rest of A-shift, and Chet was asking Marco to please pass him the gravy bowl.

Marco reached for the requested object, but then stopped, as the alarm went off.

All six of the famished firemen tensed up and listened.

"**Station 51**…" the dispatcher began.

The firemen frowned, then got up—en masse—and started heading for the garage and their trucks.

"…**Police report two men trapped in the wreckage of a light aircraft...six miles south of the Corona Freeway/La Brea Canyon Road Junction...Six miles South on La Brea Canyon Road...Ambulance responding...Time out…17:15**."

"Station 51...KMG—365," Captain Stanley answered. He handed DeSoto a copy of the call slip and then headed across the garage toward the Engine.

Roy passed the address on to his partner.

"Hang a right!" John told him.

DeSoto did.

The Engine exited the Station, and followed the Squad off down the street—lights flashing and sirens blaring.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Ten minutes later, on the La Brea Canyon Road, two California Highway Patrolmen motioned for the fire trucks to pull over onto the highway's shoulder.

The rescue vehicles groaned to a halt and their drivers cut the sirens.

Seeing that they were still four or five hundred feet from the plane, Stanley leaned out and yelled, "Can't we get any closer?"

"It's too rough!" one of the officers called back with a shake of his helmeted head. "You'll either break an axle or get stuck!"

"Do we have a fuel spill?" Stanley further inquired.

Again the patrolman shook his head. "The fuel tanks were empty on impact."

Seeing the Captain's somewhat astonished look, the patrolman's partner added, "Judging by all the bullet holes in the fuselage, somebody shot this bird clean out of the sky!"

Captain Stanley and his men glanced uncertainly at one another.

John and Roy packed their equipment into a Stokes and started off for the accident site on foot.

The Engine crew grabbed their rescue gear and followed after them.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The rescuers continued to traverse the incredibly rough terrain, toting the increasingly heavy tools of their trade.

At long last, the firemen reached the plane—or, at least what remained of it.

The emergency landing had obviously been as rough as the terrain. The aircraft had apparently flipped several times before coming to rest—upside down and practically wingless.

The firemen noted that there were indeed, several bullet holes clearly visible in the plane's crumpled fuselage, and its fuel tanks.

Gage and DeSoto tugged at the cockpit doors. They didn't budge.

Stanley motioned for Stoker and Lopez to give the paramedics a hand.

Mike stepped up to the pilot's door with the porta-power and a pry bar attachment. The metal gave like paper.

Roy shot the tool's operator a grateful glance and leaned inside to examine his victim.

At the same time, Marco pried open the passenger's door with their Ajax tool. Again the already strained metal yielded easily—this time, to hydraulic pressure.

"Thanks…" John mumbled and dropped to his knees to examine the plane's upside down passenger. He saw his partner kneeling directly across from him and shot him a questioning look.

Roy frowned and slowly shook his head.

Gage lifted his fingers from his victim's carotid artery. "Get Rampart!"

At least the plane's passenger still had a pulse.

His partner nodded and backed out to use the bio-phone.

"Better request a chopper!" John advised and continued his initial patient survey, expertly running his hands over the victim's body, checking for injur—he froze, feeling a hard lump under the man's coat jacket.

He reached in and pulled out a .45 caliber pistol? His jaw dropped and his eyebrows elevated. "Uhhh…somebody wanna get rid of this for me?" he requested.

One, of the patrolmen relieved him of the weapon.

He gave the guy a grateful glance and then relieved his gun-toting victim of his wallet as well. "Somebody wanna get a name and check for medical information?" he additionally inquired, passing the bill-fold back over his shoulder.

"His name is Victor Nardis," the officer informed him moments later. "He's 47 and single. No medical information."

"Mister Nardis, can you hear me?" John asked upon completing his initial exam. No response. "Cap, his legs are pinned between his seat and the instrument panel."

"Chet! Marco!" his Captain called out.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Two minutes later, Gage had the upper half of his upside down victim immobilized and his friends had the poor man's pinned legs freed.

John released the seat belt and they carefully extricated the passenger's crumpled body from the plane's crumpled cockpit.

The paramedic dropped to one knee beside the Stokes and proceeded to procure his now horizontal patient's vital signs. He finished and passed the info on to his partner, who passed it on to Rampart via their phone.

Gage opened several cases and began removing various bits of medical paraphernalia he knew the doctor would be ordering them to use in their treatment of poor Mr. Nardis.

Their victim had fractured both legs, both arms, his neck, his back, and possibly some ribs as well…judging by the large bruise over his sternum.

John had also noted a rigid, distended abdomen and blunt-force trauma to the head.

"Roger Rampart," DeSoto acknowledged. "We'll update the victim's vitals before we transport." He glanced back over his shoulder to identify the source of the siren that had just pulled up. "Ambulance has just arrived."

"**10-4, 51**," Dr. Brackett acknowledged back. "**Oh, and if we can free up a med-evac chopper in the next few minutes, we'll be sure to head it your way!**"

"We'd appreciate that, Rampart," Roy signed off and set the phone down to help 'all the king's horses and all the king's men' try to put 'Humpty Dumpty' back together again.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Several hectic minutes later, the two paramedics had their patient's IV's flowing, traction splints applied, M.A.S.T. trousers inflated, throat intubated, oxygen administered and safety straps in place.

The rescuers gathered their remaining gear, and the Stokes containing their secured victim, and began trudging back across the tricky, treacherous terrain, heading towards their trucks and the waiting ambulance…and a sizable crowd of spectators.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The stretcher-bearers had almost reached the highway, when their passenger regained consciousness and started choking on the tube down his throat.

They quickly and gently lowered the Stokes to the ground.

"Take it easy, Mr. Nardis!" John pleaded and expertly slid the endo-trache tube from the choking man's throat.

Mr. Nardis stopped choking and started groaning.

"Rampart…" Roy spoke into their bio-phone, "Squad 51."

"**Go ahead, 51**..."

"Rampart, victim has regained consciousness and is in a great deal of pain. Stand-by for an update on vitals..."

"**51, administer 100 milligrams Demerol, IV**..."

"Roger, Rampart," DeSoto gratefully acknowledged. "100 milligrams Demerol, IV." He glanced in Gage's direction.

John nodded and, after passing his partner the updated vitals, he proceeded to administer the prescribed painkiller. "Hang on, Mr. Nardis," the paramedic gently urged. "We've given you something for the pain." He saw the man's mouth moving through the clear plastic of his oxygen mask and raised the thing just enough to make out what he was trying to say. The victim's volume was still too low, so John lowered an ear so he could hear.

"I...I...can't see!" Mr. Nardis told him through tightly clenched teeth.

'Mister, that is the least of your problems,' the paramedic morbidly, and silently, informed the poor man.

Someone suddenly snapped a picture of him, leaning over his whispering patient.

The light from the unbelievably bright flash temporarily blinded the paramedic. "Will somebody get him out of here?" John requested, sounding extremely annoyed.

The same patrolman who had relieved him of the gun and the wallet relieved him of the extreme annoyance as well, ushering the protesting reporter out of close-up range.

John stared down at the bright blob, which moments before had been his patient's face. "How's the pain?" he asked and once again lowered an ear so he could hear.

"Better. Am I...gonna die?"

The paramedic winced and hesitated a moment or two before answering. "We're going to take you to Rampart General, Mr. Nardis. Rampart has some of the finest emergency physicians in the country," was all he'd say. After all, he didn't wanna lie.

"Okay, Johnny…" Roy interrupted. "He's stabilized. We can go ahead and transport."

Johnny looked visibly relieved and climbed up into the ambulance with their victim.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Several more busy minutes—and miles—later, in the back of the speeding ambulance…

John finished taking and relaying his now barely conscious victim's latest set of vital signs. "Mr. Nardis? Is there anyone you want us to notify?" he forced himself to ask. "A relative?...Friend?"

"No...relatives," Mr. Nardis quietly informed his concerned questioner. "No...friends. Except...for you," he added.

The paramedic pulled back a bit and saw a slight, somewhat sarcastic, smile forming on his no longer pained patient's pursed lips. 'I wish there was more I could do for you...' he sadly and silently confessed and placed his left hand over his dying victim's.

"Since you've been...so...nice...to me," Nardis quietly continued, over the ambulance's annoyingly loud siren sound, "I'm gonna do...something nice...for you."

Seeing the tremendous effort it now took for his new friend to talk, the fireman felt obligated to speak as well. "That's not necessary, Mr. Nar—"

"—Victor!" Mr. Nardis quietly corrected.

"You just take it easy...Victor. Don't try to talk," John gently urged. He reluctantly released his hold on his victim's hand and stuck his stethoscope back in his ears, to satisfy Rampart's sudden request for yet another, newer, set of vital signs.

Victor ignored his compassionate caretaker's suggestion and kept right on chatting, completely oblivious of the fact that he was now talking to himself.

Again John noted the energy draining from his critical patient and again he felt obligated to dispense with some advice. He pulled the tips of his stethoscope from his ears and took the dying man's hand back into his. "Save your stre—" the paramedic saved his breath, seeing as how his victim—er, Victor, had just lapsed back into unconsciousness.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Two**

John stood in front of the entrance to Rampart General Hospital's Emergency Receiving and watched as Roy backed their rescue Squad right in beside the ambulance and parked.

DeSoto stepped out and shot him a questioning look.

Gage frowned and shook his head. "I lost him...somewhere between the Corona Freeway and Highway 71..." his words trailed off.

"I'm surprised he made it that far," Roy quietly confided and placed a hand on his partner's slumped shoulder. "He wouldn't have made it in the chopper either, Johnny."

John lifted his hanging head and shot his mind-reading friend a grateful glance. Speaking of friends... "He said that I was the only friend he had in the world," he sadly announced.

"Yeah, well…" Roy paused, looking rather philosophical. "What he lacked in friends he more than made up for in enemies. C'mon! If we hurry up and restock maybe we can still salvage some of our supper!"

DeSoto's carefully chosen comments hit home.

Gage snapped out of his glum mood and hurried to catch up to the hungry philosopher.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Back at Station 51, in the day room, the engine crew was engaged in a very lively after-dinner discussion. Gage and DeSoto stepped in from the garage and they stopped talking to shoot the pair questioning glances.

"He didn't make it," John informed them and felt that glum mood beginning to descend upon him…again.

"We heard," Stanley said and pointed to the oven door. "We've been keeping your food warm for you. It's been on the radio. We've been trying to figure out why someone would want to shoot that plane out of the sky."

Roy placed he and his partner's plates down in their respective places. "So…" he said, tossing a pair of hot pads over his shoulder and assuming his seat, "what did you guys come up with?"

Marco's eyes narrowed. "I think they were drug smugglers. They were headed for the border."

"Maybe Victor Nardis was some sort of spy…a double agent…trying to get out of the country," Mike theorized.

"I bet he's a cat burglar," Chet declared. "I bet those suitcases were full of hot merchandise and he was taking the stuff to a fence in Mexico."

DeSoto shot the imaginative shift-mates some deeply skeptical glances and then turned to his Commander. "What do you think, Cap?"

"I think these guys have been watching too much television and seeing too many movies!" Stanley stated with a grin.

His men grinned and then turned to Gage, who was still just standing there, looking and feeling rather glum.

"What about you, Johnny?" Mike Stoker inquired aloud, as their questioning glances failed to elicit a response. "Why do _you_ figure it was shot down?"

Johnny saw all five of his fellow firefighters sitting there, waiting patiently for his reply. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to give them one.

The Station's tones sounded.

The troops tensed up and listened.

"**Squad 51...Burn victim...480 West Collins Drive...Cross-street Birmingham Avenue...480 West Collins Drive...Ambulance responding...Time out…18:47**."

"We got it, Cap!" Roy volunteered, and started heading for the call station, his partner on his heels.

"Thanks!" Stanley stared down at the two still untouched, rapidly re-cooling plates full of food and promised the paramedics, "We'll, uh, keep it warm for you!"

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

One rather hectic run later…

John Gage stood in the corridor just outside of Treatment 3, jiggling a very fussy baby in his arms.

Nurse Dixie McCall stepped out of said room and spotted the infant. Her eyebrows arched. "Yours?"

"I'm a bachelor," the paramedic reminded her.

Dixie's curiosity remained unappeased. "Yours?" she repeated. "There are bachelor _fathers_, you know."

"Yeah. Well, I'm a bachelor _bachelor_," John assured her and paused in his jiggling to shoot the nurse a look of complete desperation.

Dixie saw the look and came to his rescue.

"Thanks, Dix!" Gage sighed, as he was relieved of his bawling burden.

The infant immediately stopped fussing.

"Being a bachelor, you probably didn't think to bring diapers and a bottle..." Nurse McCall teased.

The freed fireman appeared somewhat insulted by her accusation. He pointed to a bag full of baby supplies resting on the counter in front of the nurses' Station. "I'm a bachelor not a complete bozo!"

"No comment," Dixie muttered, looking more than a little amused.

John was just about to comment on her no comment, when Roy exited the room. "Has anyone figured out what to do with her yet?"

Dixie nodded. "Bonnie Freeman just went off duty. She's volunteered to baby-sit until her father gets here."

"Great!" DeSoto determined. "Then we can go!"

"Wai-ait!" Gage latched onto his departing partner and pulled him to a stop. "How's Mrs. Weston?"

"She's gonna need some skin grafts and cosmetic surgery, but Morton says Candy's mommy is going to be just fine!" Roy replied.

"How'd it happen?" Candy's caretaker inquired.

"She was standing in front of a gas range, cooking dinner," John explained. "She reached for something in the cupboard above the stove and her shirt caught fire."

Seeing as how everyone's curiosity now seemed to be satisfied, Roy turned again to leave, taking his still stalled partner in tow.

"Johnny?" the head of Rampart's Emergency Receiving suddenly called down the hall.

The two paramedics halted and turned to stare off in the voice's direction, at the tall, dark-haired doctor, standing in the doorway to his office.

"Can you step in here a minute?" Dr. Kelly Brackett requested.

Roy passed his partner their HT. "I'll, uh, wait in the Squad," he announced and started heading for the exit. "Oh, and you probably should clear us!" DeSoto called back over his shoulder.

John raised the radio and thumbed its transmit button. "LA, Squad 51...Available at Rampart General."

"**10-4, 51**…" LA acknowledged him.

He acknowledged the good doctor by complying with the physician's request for the presence of his personage in his office. 'Great! Now what have I done?'

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

He reached the MD's office.

Brackett ushered him inside and then closed the door.

Two strange men in sinister black suits started getting stiffly to their feet. One had blond hair—the other, brown.

The blond-haired guy stepped forwards.

"Johnny, this is Steven Nardis," the doctor stated, introducing the stranger of the two. "He'd like to speak with you."

"My brother, Victor, was in a plane wreck earlier this evening," Steven Nardis announced and extended his hand.

The paramedic looked extremely skeptical and rather reluctantly proffered his right palm as well. Their hands met for a moment. The paramedic shuddered, visibly, and then quickly released the liar's cold and clammy appendage.

"Doctor Brackett tells me that you were with my brother at the end," Steven Nardis continued. "I was wondering if he said anything to you before he died?"

'Hardly grief-stricken...and absolutely no family resemblance,' John mentally noted. He also noticed that both men's bulging suit jackets were buttoned shut. 'To hide their guns no doubt...' he silently figured out. Gage gave Victor's so-called brother a stare as cold as his handshake and a slight nod. "He told me he didn't have any relati—" he stopped talking as something suddenly occurred to him. 'What if Victor was the one who was lying? What if this guy really is his brother?' One of them was lying...but which one? The completely confused looking fireman figured there was one quick way to find out. "Can I see some identification?" he calmly requested.

Steven Nardis stiffened suddenly and exchanged a nervous glance with his equally stiff companion.

'That's what I thought...' Gage silently gloated, and then he, too stiffened as the radio in his left hand began beeping."Sorry, Doc! But I got a run!" the on-duty paramedic apologized and went racing out of the room.

"**Station 51...Station 16...Station 23...Battalion 14...Structure fire…**"

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Back at Station 51, later that same evening, the fatigued firemen returned from battling a four-alarm blaze.

DeSoto backed the Squad into the garage, shut the ignition off and shot his silent, sooty partner a worried stare. "What's with you, Johnny? You haven't said one word since we left Rampart. Is it something Dr. Brackett said?"

John shook his head. "It's somethin' I said...that I wish I hadn't a'. I should've never asked them to show me some identification. Cap's right. I've watched way too much TV and I've seen way too many movies. You see, I saw this movie once where they did that and I thought it would be a good thing to do when you didn't think someone really was who they said they were," he quietly and quickly explained—in one long breath. Perhaps too quickly, he realized, seeing as how his partner now appeared completely perplexed. "There were these two guys in Brackett's office," Gage began again. "One of 'em wanted to know what his brother's dying words were. Only, Victor said he didn't have a brother. So I knew someone was lying…and I wanted to find out who—"

"—So you asked to see some identification," Roy finished, finally comprehending his colleague's confusing comments.

"Considering the circumstances," Captain Hank Stanley suddenly piped up, "that was a pretty smart thing to do."

The Squad's startled passenger recovered and turned to stare out the vehicle's open window at Engine 51's entire crew, who had—judging by the Cap's comment—apparently been eavesdropping the entire time.

"So, who was lying?" Stoker wondered.

"Yeah!" Chet chimed in. "Did they show you some identification?"

Their questions caused John's highly annoyed look to return to one of gloom—and doom. "They couldn't...because they weren't really who they said they were."

"Who were they—really?" Marco wanted to know.

"I don't know who they were," Gage glumly confessed, "but I know who they weren't! They weren't anyone that I ever wanna meet up with again, that's for sure!" he emphatically, and quite dramatically, stated. Then he looked up at his Captain and solemnly added, "Sometimes a person can be too smart for his own good."

Stanley was about to ask what the apparently deeply troubled paramedic meant by that, when the Station's claxons sounded.

"**Squad 51**…"

Roy climbed out to take the call.

"The two of you should probably hit one of those fast food joints next chance you get," Stanley suggested. "In fact, you can consider that an order!"

The two men nodded.

DeSoto piled back in and the paramedics pulled out of the Station with their Squad's sirens blaring and their empty stomachs growling.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Gage and DeSoto were kept busy all night. They—and their still empty stomachs—returned from their umpteenth call, forty-five minutes after the shift change.

The alarm went off.

"**Squad 51...assist Engine 51 at their vehicle fire...1220 West Raymond Street...Repeat...1220 West Raymond...Cross-street North Philips...time out…8:45**..."

The two exhausted paramedics piled out of the Squad and their counterparts piled in.

The pair watched the truck pull out into the street and then started shuffling off across the big, empty garage in search of their street clothes.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A few minutes later, Roy was standing in front of his locker, tucking in his shirttails, and listening to the loud rumbling of his empty tummy. "I sure hope Joanne has breakfast waiting for me when I get home," he told his uncharacteristically quiet companion. "You still worrying about those guys in Brackett's office?"

"To tell you the truth, we've been so busy I haven't even thought about them," Gage confessed, but then annoyedly added, "Until no-ow..."

DeSoto looked appropriately apologetic and then slightly worried himself. "You're welcome to come home with me."

John glanced up from the shoelace he was tying and gave his friend, with the very generous—and touching—offer, a grateful glance and a warm smile. "You're worried about me?"

"Only if you're still worried about them," his friend informed him. There followed a long silence. Which DeSoto finally broke. "So...Are you?"

"Yes...and no," his partner replied and then proceeded to elaborate just a bit on his answer. "If what I imagine is really real, then yes. But, if what I imagine is only imaginary, then no. Problem is...I don't know for sure."

"Maybe you should talk to Vince," Roy solemnly suggested.

Vince Howard was a mutual friend of theirs. He was also a very fine _police officer_.

John contemplated his helpful associate's seemingly sound advice over for a few moments and then flashed him a grateful grin. "I just might swing by and pay him a visit this morning," he announced. "Thanks, Roy!" Gage grabbed his jacket from his locker and turned to go.

"See yah, Johnny!" DeSoto called after him.

"See yah, partner!" Johnny called back. 'I hope…'

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Three**

At a sunlit intersection several blocks from the Fire Station, John pulled up to a red light and stopped. He noticed his rear-view mirror was slightly askew and reached up to adjust it.

A rather sinister looking black sedan appeared—right on his back bumper.

The fireman's heart skipped a beat or two and his raised right arm froze.

The vehicle's two visible passengers were bedecked in buttoned up suit coats and very dark glasses.

He didn't recognize either of the car's occupants, however. So he just figured his movie imagination must be getting the better of him…again. He exhaled a welcome sigh of relief and allowed his arm to drop back onto the steering wheel.

The light went green. John hit his turn signal and then changed lanes. His blood ran cold, seeing as how the black sedan remained on his back bumper.

In fact, it followed him clear over to the Charter Oak Police Station.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The paramedic pulled up and parked…just as close to the building's front door as he could possibly get!

He gave the shady guys who had been shadowing him a couple of icy glares, then went dashing inside and up to the desk sergeant.

"What can we do for you, today?" the sergeant asked the concerned-looking citizen that had just skidded to a halt in front of his desk.

"I'm, uh, looking for Officer Vince Howard" Gage gasped. "Is he here?"

"You just missed him. He just left for home about twenty minutes ago, and he doesn't come back on duty 'til tomorrow afternoon sometime. Is there something I can help you with?" the sergeant asked, upon noticing that their gasping visitor now appeared completely devastated.

Gage gasped again, this time in exasperation. "Uhhh...yeah! I'm a paramedic with LA County. I pulled someone out of a plane wreck yesterday who was carrying a gun. The guy didn't make it. Then these two other guys wanted to know what the dead guy told me before he died. Only I had to leave on a run before I could tell them. And now, I'm being followed!"

The sergeant just sat there, staring at their long-winded guest, looking both dazed and amazed. "You mean that plane that was shot down?"

Their understandably nervous visitor gave him a glum nod.

"Has anyone threatened you?" the sergeant wondered, sounding somewhat nervous himself.

"No," John told him. "At least, not yet!"

"I'm sorry, but unless they've threatened you—or broken the law somehow—there's really nothing we can do. It's not a crime to follow someone," the officer added, seeing _someone's_ look of absolute disbelief…and horror. "I'm sorry," he apologized once again, "but we just don't have the time, or the manpower, to cover non-criminal investigations."

Gage exhaled another gasp of total disbelief. "But, by the time a crime has been committed—" he stopped suddenly. He couldn't bring himself to say it. Heck! He didn't even want to think about it. Because by that time, it just might be too late! "Thanks. I won't take up any more of your valuable time," the fireman muttered, his hushed voice an equal mixture of insincerity and sarcasm.

"When I see Vince tomorrow, who should I say was looking for him?" his unhelpful host inquired.

The paramedic paused on his way to the door. "John Gage…" he called back over his shoulder. "Station 51."

"Good luck, John!" the officer called after him.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

John Gage pulled up and parked in the lot behind Station 51.

He left his car and locked all its doors.

Then he hurried up to the brick building and unlocked the back door of the garage just long enough for him to pass quickly through it.

"Hold it!" B-Shift's Captain advised, stepping from his office. "Oh, John, it's you..." he added rather relievedly, as the intruder turned his familiar face toward him. "What on earth are you still doing here?"

The paramedic's only reply was a quick question of his own. "Can I stay here tonight, Cap?"

"Why? They fumigating your apartment or something?"

"Or something…" Gage glumly acknowledged, but then looked hopeful. "Can I?"

B-Shift's Captain thought the paramedic's request over for a few moments and then inquired, "Do you snore?"

"No."

"Then, you can stay!" the Station's proprietor permitted with a grin. "And…" he added, "you can thank me by rounding me up this morning's paper!" Then Donnelly, and his grin, disappeared into the day room.

John stood there for a few moments, safely locked inside the Station, trying to muster up the nerve to leave and retrieve the newspaper. "This is ridiculous!" he realized aloud, as anger replaced fear. He faced flames, cave-ins, dizzying heights, near drownings, car crashes, mudslides, and generally _explosive_ situations, on a regular basis!

'What are two men in dark glasses compared to that?' he reasoned further, and decided he was just going to forget all about this following business. If he ignored them long enough, his shadows would—hopefully—just go away.

He took a deep breath and headed for the front door, looking very...determined.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Gage reached Station 51's front entrance, unlocked the portal and pulled it open.

The sinister-looking black sedan appeared in the parking lot of the furniture mart directly across from the Station.

True to his resolve, John completely ignored it—and its occupants—and headed off across the porch in search of his quest. He saw the paper protruding from one of the shrubs on the Station's front lawn, and bent down to retrieve it.

The paramedic stopped—right in mid stoop—and stared down at the front page of the LA Times...and the picture of him, leaning over Victor Nardis!

'PARAMEDIC COMFORTS CRASH VICTIM' the photo's caption read.

However, it was the paper's headline that really got Gage's attention: 'MOB COURIER KILLED'.

The paramedic cringed and his resolve began to dissolve. His whole body went sort a' numb, except for his stomach…which felt like it was tying itself into one big, giant knot again. "Ahh-uhh, ma-an!" the paramedic pouted. "This just keeps gettin' better an' better!"

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

John entered the day room and appreciatively passed the paper in his numb right hand on to the Station's Captain...as per his request.

"Humph! I figured there'd be something in here about that plane wreck," Donnelly announced, "but I didn't expect to find it on the _front page_!"

The rest of B-Shift's curious crew gathered around their Captain. The men stared down at the paper and then up at the off-duty paramedic, looking as astonished as their leader sounded.

"This, uh, wouldn't by any chance have anything to do with you wanting to stay here tonight, would it?" Donnelly asked, his voice filled with sarcasm.

"No-o!" Gage stated, equally sarcastically. "It has everything to do with it!"

"What?" B-Shift's Engineer's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Are you hiding out in here cuz' you figure the Mob is after you?"

The paramedic's already slumped shoulders sagged even further. "I really don't know who they work for," he glumly admitted.

"They?" paramedic Bob Curen repeated with arched eyebrows.

"The guys who are following me," John elaborated, sounding even glummer.

The B-Shift firefighters exchanged deeply skeptical glances.

"What makes you think someone's following you?" Curen's partner wanted to know.

"Yeah," B-Shift's Engineer came back. "You sure it's not just your imagination?"

"See for yourselves," Gage glumly invited. "My, ahh, imagination is parked just across the street."

The firemen looked even more skeptical, but began filing out of the room.

Donnelly glanced back over his shoulder. "Aren't you coming?"

John frowned. "I'm sick a' lookin' at 'em!" he replied, but then reluctantly followed along.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

In the parking bay, the seven LA County firefighters lined up on the pavement in front of the apparatus, and then stood there, gazing out the garage door's windows at the sinister black sedan and as its shady occupants.

Gage watched as his six associates' jaws dropped.

Their eyes widened, their brows shot up, and then their heads turned in his direction…all in perfect unison. Under lighter circumstances, the amazing sight might have even been amusing.

"C'mon!" Captain Donnelly suddenly ordered, and pressed the OPEN button. The garage's heavy door began grinding its way up. "Let's go see what they want!"

The firemen glanced uncertainly at each other but then obediently fell in behind their boss.

"C'mon, John!" Donnelly re-invited and motioned for the lone straggler to join their brave band. "THEY say there's safety in numbers! So, c'mon! We'll either get you some answers…or we'll scare 'em off!"

Gage gave his fellow firefighters grateful glances, and then left the garage to join their little group.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The firemen lined up across the end of the driveway and then stood there, waiting patiently for a safe moment to cross the street.

"This reminds me of a movie I once saw," paramedic Sonny Patterson suddenly realized.

"The Godfather?" his partner pondered.

"The Magnificent Seven!" Patterson proudly declared as they stepped into the street.

The 'Magnificent Seven' exchanged smiles and started striding towards the sinister-looking black sedan.

The sedan's passenger saw the firemen approaching, en masse, and elbowed its driver into action. The car's engine came to life and it pulled out of the parking lot, gears grinding and tires squealing.

Donnelly stared after the rapidly vanishing vehicle for a few moments and then turned to the one member of their group who was in street clothes. "Get changed!" he ordered. "If we get a call, I want you with us!" Then, since John was slow to respond, B-Shift's concerned Captain quickly added, "Step on it, Gage! I don't know who those jokers work for, either. But, it's a safe bet it **ain't** the _good _guys!"

Gage grimaced and then started heading back towards the garage at a much brisker pace than he'd left it.

"The Godfather..." Bob Curen glumly concluded, feeling less magnificent by the moment.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Later that same morning, Engine 51 returned from battling another blaze.

B-Shift's Engineer backed the truck into its stall and then flicked off the ignition.

However, instead of climbing down and heading for the day room, he and the rest of the firemen just sat there, staring off across the street.

"They're ba-ack..." Carl Jansen glumly declared for the third time in as many hours.

The truck's Engineer turned to his front seat passenger, looking curious. "So, Cap…we gonna scare 'em off again...or what?"

Donnelly turned his troubled gaze from the unmoving car to his unmoving men. "Let's face it, firemen just aren't a very scary lot. Present company excepted," he quickly corrected. "But, policemen? Now, I bet those two would find policemen truly terrifying!"

"Been there," the truck's spare passenger glumly piped up. "Done that."

"You've already called the cops?" Allen Briggs incredulously inquired.

"Even better," the on-duty off-duty fireman informed him. "I drove over to the Stationhouse this morning and spoke to the desk sergeant in person."

"So," Carl Jansen urged, "what'd he say?"

"He said that following someone is not a crime. And, that the police can't step in until a crime has been...committed," John glumly replied and suddenly realized the Captain was right. Policemen could be truly terrifying, indeed!

"That's it?" Briggs demanded, sounding even more incredulous.

"No-o," their truly terrified colleague continued. "He, uh, also wished me good luck."

Donnelly overcame his absolute amazement, and complete disgust, and started climbing down out of the truck. "C'mon! First, we'll run 'em off…and then we'll eat! And, if we have to, we'll run 'em off again after lunch!"

"Angry firemen can be pretty frightening," Carl quietly concluded when their Captain finally finished his order shouting.

He and his sparked into action associates exchanged forced smiles and followed their frightening commander out of the garage, matching the mad man's gait—angry stride for angry stride.

"Hey!" Allen Briggs suddenly said, "I got a riddle for you. Why did the firemen cross the roa—?" his voice trailed off, drowned out by the loud groans of his companions.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Four**

Forty-one extremely fatiguing hours later, B-Shift's crew—plus one—made it back from a particularly strenuous call, the culmination of a particularly action-packed shift.

Captain Donnelly hauled his half-dead carcass down out of the engine and then he and the others watched as the descending door swallowed up their view of the now silhouetted, and even more sinister-looking, black sedan parked in the little lot across the street. "What's it gonna take to get rid of those guys?" he wondered rather wearily.

No one commented on the Captain's question. They were all too tired to talk. Besides, none of them knew the answer.

Well, actually, one of them had a pretty good idea of what it was gonna take, but he was not about to share it with anyone.

"Lights out in ten minutes!" Donnelly warned and started heading for the washroom.

The rest of B-Shift shuffled out of the garage as well, stifling yawns and sliding suspenders from of their aching, slumped shoulders.

John lingered there in the apparatus bay for awhile and then crossed over to the day room.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Just before dawn, Gage, who was still seated on the brown, leather-covered sofa in the day room staring blankly off into space, exhaled a weary sigh and glanced down at his watch. No wonder he was so tired! He'd been up for over 72 hours!

"C'mon!" he told the heavy, happy-looking Basset hound lying in his lap. "We might as well get it over with."

Henry grumbled disgustedly as he was brushed off of the fireman and then shoved down onto the floor. The dog watched disinterestedly as the couch hog shoved himself up and off of the sofa's comfortable cushions and then started heading for the door. However, when the man's hand started reaching for the hook that held its leash, the normally comatose canine actually came to life!

When Henry was happy, he wagged his tail.

When Henry was really happy, his entire body wagged...and it was wagging now.

"Hold still, will yah!" John quietly requested. The dog did and he was finally able to get the leash clipped to its collar. The completely pooped, stooped fireman exhaled a gasp of relief and then slowly started straightening up. 'Apparently too slowly...' Gage realized as the impatient pooch started dragging him off across the garage.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The pair reached Charter Oak's municipal park fifteen minutes, five blocks, twelve bushes and twenty-seven light poles later.

The paramedic—and the formula one beast that had been pulling him—passed through an open gate.

It was beginning to get light enough to see by now, so the fireman found what his squinting eyes had been searching for.

Gage ground to a halt, dragged the dog over to the nearest bench and then collapsed exhaustedly down onto it. "You make...way too many...pit stops!" the breathless paramedic complained to his wagging, dragging, walking companion.

The Basset hound completely ignored the complainer. The dog's snout, and all of its attention, remained riveted on the ground.

Seeing as how the canine seemed to be caught up in a bit of a fit of a sniffing frenzy, the paramedic felt obligated to issue it a health warning. "You better watch it, kid...or you're gonna get a nose blister…" his words trailed off as Henry's head suddenly snapped up and he started growling...a low, deep-throated, menacing growl. "Mr. Nardis?" John inquired, loudly enough to be heard over the sound of Henry's snarls.

"You were expecting me?" the blond-haired liar from Brackett's office inquired back and stepped out from behind the bench, being careful to stay just beyond reach of the leash.

"I'd like to finish that conversation we started back at the hospital," the paramedic calmly continued. "Your...brother didn't tell me anything."

"The reporter who took that picture said he saw Victor talking to you," the blond-haired guy announced and gave the still seated fireman a sickeningly smug smile.

"I meant anything important! " the paramedic clarified.

Mr. Nardis' smile faded fast and his eyes narrowed, evilly. "Why don't you just tell me everything that Victor said...and let **me** be the judge of what's important and what's not!"

John heaved an exasperated sigh and then started searching through his groggy mind's memory banks. "He, uh...said he couldn't see. He asked if he was going to die. He said he didn't have any relatives or friends…except for me. He wanted me to call him Victor. Oh yeah, and he said he wanted to do something nice for me."

"Like what?" the self-appointed judge pondered, apparently finding the fireman's last comment important.

"I don't know. If he said what, I ain't aware of it. I was kind 'a busy at the time," John added, by way of a reminder.

The judge looked deeply skeptical. "Too busy to hear to a dying man's last words?"

"My job is to try to keep people from having last words!" the paramedic angrily announced. "Look," John continued, lowering both his raised voice and his rising temper, "I've told you everything Victor Nardis said…that I'm aware of. If I could help you, I would! I swear!"

"If that's true," the judge told him, looking and sounding smugger than ever, "then why were you so unwilling to talk back at the hospital? And why were you keeping yourself holed up in that Fire Station?

The fireman flashed the flunky an 'Are you for rea-eal?' look. "Your…brother was carrying a gun! His plane was shot down! You were lying to me! Your...unfriendly friends were following me! And the paper called Victor Nardis a MOB courier! How else was I supposed to act? I was scared half to death! The only reason I'm sitting here talking to you right now is because I haven't slept in three days and I'm just too tired to be terrified anymore. Now, you'll have to excuse me," the too pooped to be petrified paramedic informed the flunky and started rising, slowly and stiffly, to his feet. "Cuz' I got a lot of sleep to catch up on. Goodbye…Mr. Nardis," Gage further stated, looking very determined and sounding very final. "C'mon, boy," he added, giving the leash a tug.

Henry gave the blond guy one last menacing growl and went trotting off with his leash's handler.

"I'll be in touch!" the blond guy called after them. "Just in case you should happen to remember anything else!"

"There isn't anything else to remember!" the fireman shouted back over his shoulder and just kept right on walking.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

At a phone booth just outside the municipal park in Charter Oak, a few minutes later…

The blond-haired guy grimaced and pulled the receiver away from his ear as the person he'd been speaking to suddenly let go with a long, LOUD string of curses.

"That fireman was the last link between Nardis and my money!" the cursor finished screaming.

The man in the booth pulled the phone back up to his mouth. "I think he still is a link, Uncle Nick! I think he knows more than he's telling! I think we should lean on him a little and see if his memory impro—"

"—I don't pay you to think, Phillip!" the angry guy on the other end of the line interrupted. "I pay you to do what I tell you to do! And I'm telling you to back off! If you're right, and Nardis did tell him where it is, sooner or later he'll go for it. And when he does, I'll take it ba**—**"

"—But, you don't know this guy!" Phillip, alias Steven Nardis, interrupted right back. "You wouldn't believe what he does for a living! The kind of work he does? He could get killed before he goes for it!"

"That's all the more reason to leave him be! The quicker you back off, the quicker he'll go for it!" his uncle, and boss, repeated. "Phillip, I know you've seen too many movies! I know you sometimes forget how things are done in the real world! So, don't do anything stupid! I don't care if you are my wife's nephew, you botch this and I-I'll..." the man on the other end of the line suddenly went silent, letting his threat just hang there in the air. "Now, go do as you're told!"

"Yes, Uncle!" Phillip acknowledged and then winced as he got a phone slammed down in his ear. He stood there for a few moments, raging silently over having been scolded once again by his arrogant relative. For the last time, judging by totally fed up look on his face. "No-o, Uncle!" Phillip angrily restated, and slammed his phone rather forcefully down as well. He left the booth and casually climbed back into the black car that was parked, with its engine running, just outside it.

The brown-haired stranger from Brackett's office was seated on the driver's side. He sat there, impatiently drumming the wheel with his fingers. "Well?" he wondered finally."What'd he say?"

"The next chance we get," Phillip reported back, "we grab him!"

The driver turned and stared disbelievingly across the front seat. "We** what**?" he exclaimed, putting the astonishment he felt into words. "You sure about that? Mr. Gardino wants us to grab him?" He got an affirmative nod. "Then Gardino doesn't believe this guy's story, either?"

"He didn't say that. He just wants us to lean on him a little and see if his story changes any. C'mon, Lenny!" Phillip encouraged, failing miserably to hide his growing excitement. "Let's go get the rest of the boys!"

Lenny obligingly slipped the car into gear and they headed off for the…round up.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Five**

Speaking of roundups...

As each member of Captain Stanley's crew came straggling into the garage, Captain Donnelly directed him into the day room.

When asked what was going on, and why they'd been called back to work—two days early—all B-Shift's Commander would say was that they'd find out once everybody got there.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Roy was relieved to see his partner's vehicle in the parking lot when he pulled up. He was even more relieved to find him collapsed—all in one piece—on the rec'room couch. He sank into the armchair directly across from his somewhat dazed associate and felt obliged to comment on his nearly comatose comrade's confusing wardrobe. "Either you were really early...or I am really late," he teased and succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from his extremely fatigued looking friend.

Craig Brice stepped into the room, spotted the paramedic he was supposed to be replacing and annoyedly inquired, "If you're here, then why am I here?"

"You'll find out soon enough," the Captain who had requested his presence promised, and then popped his head back out of the room. "Hey, Hank!" Donnelly called out the door as his counterpart entered the garage. "Can you step in here for a minute?"

"Sure, Pat!" Stanley called back and changed his course. "What's up?" he wondered, following his fellow Captain, and close friend, into the day room. He stopped in the open doorway and stared for a few amazed moments at the dozen or so firemen seated around the room. The only member of his crew in uniform was Gage...and it wasn't even the right one!

"Don't worry, Hank," Donnelly remarked, as if reading his mind. "You and your boys'll have plenty of time to change. I've declared an in-house emergency. This Station is Code 8 for the next hour or so."

The dozen or so members of the Captain's captive audience exchanged amazed glances themselves...and then gave Donnelly their undivided attention.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

As promised, Brice, and the rest of A-shift, had the whole saga of the sinister-looking black sedan explained to them.

Well, most all of it, anyways.

For the longest time, nobody said a word. The flabbergasted firemen just kept glancing from Gage, to Donnelly, and then back to Gage again.

John grimaced and then sank even lower into the sofa's seat cushion.

Chet Kelly was the first to overcome his amazement. He cleared his throat and then quietly commented, "Will somebody pinch me? I gotta be dreamin' all this! 'Cuz things like this just don't happen in the **real** world!"

"Gee," John turned to the mustached gentleman occupying the cushion next to his and gave him a grateful look. "Thanks, Chet! I feel a whole lot better now that I know this is all just a dream!" he sarcastically stated. Then his barely open eyes narrowed even further and his mock gratitude turned to annoyance. "Next time you come up with a dream like this, I'd appreciate it if you would leave **me** out of it!"

"Never mind him," DeSoto advised, finally finding his voice as well. "What are you going to do about...them?"

Gage glanced around the room, saw the expressions of gloom and doom on his friends' and fellow workers' faces and quickly dispensed with a little advice of his own. "Hey, cheer up, you guys! I think I got rid of them," he announced. "At least, I hope I did..." he added, looking and sounding a lot less certain.

"How?" Captain Stanley nervously inquired.

"I explained that they were wasting their time," the sleepy paramedic replied. "Because Victor Nardis didn't tell me ANYTHING that might even be remotely interesting to them."

Captain Donnelly and Captain Stanley stepped up to the couch and stared down at the drowsy fireman, looking absolutely furious—and completely dumbstruck.

"You spoke with them?" A-shift's Commander inquired, being the first to recover.

John cringed and nodded.

"When?" Donnelly angrily demanded. "And where?"

"This morning," the terribly tired paramedic timidly told them, "in the park."

"You went down to the park this morning?" B-Shift's Captain fumed, recovering first this time.

Again, Gage cringed and nodded.

"Alone?" Donnelly further fumed.

"Of course not!" John said and saw they seemed somewhat relieved. "Henry was with me," he explained, accurately anticipating their next question.

The firemen stared at the motionless mutt sprawled across Gage and Kelly's laps for a few moments.

"You went down to the park alone?" Donnelly restated. "After what I told you about there being safety in numbers? They could've—"

"—That's just it, Cap!" John interrupted. "They could've...but they didn't—"

"—But they could've!" Donnelly interrupted right back and remained extremely annoyed with him, perhaps even downright angry.

"That was a dumb move, John!" Stanley joined in. "A person can be too stupid for his own good, too, you know!"

"Sorry," Gage groggily acknowledged. "I told them I was too tired to be terrified anymore. Guess I'm also too tired to think straight anymore," he realized.

Stanley flashed the remorseful, overly fatigued fireman a forgiving smile and then shot his fellow Captain a somber glance. "What did headquarters have to say about all of this?"

"Internal Affairs said they'd be sending someone over this afternoon," Donnelly announced, and then suddenly looked curious. "What are you going to do with him in the meantime? He's obviously in no condition now to ride along."

"Yeah," Hank Stanley conceded. "But until I know for sure what's going on out there, I'm not leaving him alone in here! Kelly, your job—until further notice—is to keep Gage company!"

"Aye, aye, Cap!" Chet acknowledged.

"Unh-uh!" Gage began to protest. "There's no way I'm getting you guys involved in thi—"

"—Stow it, Mister!" Stanley advised. "We're already involved in this. This isn't just your problem. It's the Station's problem, too."

Gage saw the rest of the guys nodding in agreement and shot them all a look of gratitude mixed with equal parts of admiration. "If anything ever happened to any of yous, I'd never forgive myself," he sadly surmised.

"We'll, uh, keep that in mind, pal," his Captain promised, with another warm smile.

"Cap," John's partner suddenly interjected, "how are you ever going to know what's going on out there, if the cops won't investigate this?"

Stanley's smile vanished and he stood there, looking completely stumped.

Kelly looked thoughtful. "We could hire a private cop," he helpfully, and hopefully, suggested.

Noting that the men were nodding again, and that Chet had used the word we, John felt obliged to inform them that, "Private investigators are awfully expensi—"

"—We get a really good one," Kelly interrupted, "he should be able to get us all the information we need in one day. It's worth a couple a' hundred bucks, ain't it?"

Once more, the men nodded—unanimously.

Captain Stanley crossed over to the phone book, picked it up and began thumbing through the Yellow Pages. "So-o, Chester B.," he said, upon seeing the dozens and dozens of possible employees, "how do we go about picking a really good one? They're not exactly listed here under really good, mediocre and waste of money."

The guys grinned.

Chester B. shot his commander an 'oh, brother' look. "You don't find really good ones in the phone book, Cap. You gotta ask around. You know, get a couple a' references."

"Okay," Stanley closed the book in his hands and looked around the room. "Anybody know any really good private investigators?"

Silence.

"Anybody know of any private investigators?"

Again, nobody spoke.

"Anybody know of anybody else who might know a private investigator?" Stanley tried one last time.

"My friend, Angela, is a lawyer," Craig Brice confessed. "Lawyers sometimes use private investigators. Shall I call her?"

"Go ahead!" Stanley invited and stepped out of the way.

Brice picked up the phone and started dialing.

Gage redirected his glazed gaze and suddenly noticed that his normally somber partner looked even more somber than usual...maybe even downright horrified. John's sleepy eyes widened and he leaned forwards in his seat. "What's wrong, Roy?"

"Nothin'," DeSoto assured his concerned friend, but then quietly confided, "I, uh...just realized that I almost stepped up to the _**passenger's**_ door of that plane."

"Any one of us could have been with Victor Nardis when he died," Captain Donnelly clarified, waving his arm around the room.

Captain Stanley nodded solemnly in agreement and gave the fireman sitting in the hot seat another warm smile. "And that is another reason why this isn't just your problem, pal!"

Gage gave the group of guys gathered around him—and with him—another look of admiration and gratitude.

Which they pretended not to notice.

Brice hung the phone up and handed Stanley a slip of paper with a list of names and numbers. "Angela said they might be too busy to handle our case. She said the best investigators are always busy."

"Thanks, Brice!" Stanley acknowledged looking somewhat amazed, and amused, that Craig had called the case _ours_. He picked the phone back up and started dialing.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Five minutes and seven phone calls later...

"Alright...I see...Thanks, anyway...Yes...Goodbye!" Hank Stanley hung up the phone and crossed the last name off the list. "Well, that does it! They must be the best investigators. They're all too busy to help us."

"In that case," Craig told his glum Captain, "Angela says we should try James Rockford."

Stanley looked skeptical, but started flipping through the Yellow Pages of the phone book. "Here he is." Hank glanced up at his fellow firefighters. "Shall we call him?"

"Sure, Cap!" Kelly urged. "The guy's bound to be good!" Then, seeing his colleagues staring questioningly at him, he added, "THEY say, when you're second best you try harder."

The guys groaned.

Stanley stood there for a few moments, smiling. Then he picked the phone back up and started dialing.

It rang a long time.

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answered at last.

"Hello. James Rockford?" the Captain inquired.

"Yeah..."

"Mr. Rockford, this is Captain Hank Stanley. I'm with the LA County Fire Department. We, uh, have this…problem over here at Station 51—"

"—Captain," Mr. Rockford interrupted, "I'm sorry, but, even if it wasn't only eight o'clock in the morning, I'm not taking any new cases right now."

"Let me guess," Stanley requested with a frown, "you're too busy, right?"

"No. I'm too tired. I've been out of town, working on a case, and I just got in about an hour ago. I'm taking some time off. But if you still need me in a few days, I'll be glad to help then."

"Thanks, but we need someone right away. And we've run out of names," Stanley realized, but then brightened. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know any good unemployed private investigators, would you?"

"That's a contradiction, Captain," Rockford reminded the fireman, but then came up with one potential candidate. "Mike Fedrizzi might be available. Would you like his number?"

"He's not in the Yellow Pages?"

"No," Rockford replied. "He lost his license for awhile. But I heard he got it back last week. It's Garden 499-7387. You got that?"

"Yes. Thank you, Mr. Rockford. Enjoy your vacation!"

"Thanks, Captain. I hope everything works out over there. Good-bye—er, good morning."

There was a click.

Stanley sighed and replaced the receiver. "I wonder if third best tries at all," he mumbled to himself and then turned to face his men.

"We may as well wait for the Internal Affairs guys, now," B-Shift's Captain glumly surmised. "They'll probably do just as good a job sorting through this...mess."

Seeing the others nodding thoughtfully, Stanley drew his slumped shoulders back and informed everyone, "Alright, then I'm putting the Station back in service. Pat, thanks for calling us in, and thank you, and your crew, for all your help. We promise we'll keep you posted. Kelly, see to it that our tired friend here makes it to his bunk! And then, I want you to stay with him! In fact, I want you sticking to him like stink on bologna! Is that understood, gentlemen?" the Captain inquired of both parties involved.

"Yes, Cap!" the now cowering couch potatoes answered in unison.

Kelly was more than okay with the order. He just wasn't so sure he liked their Captain's little comparison.

Gage shoved his half of their lap dog off of him and started climbing slowly and stiffly to his feet. "C'mon...Stinky," he teased and turned to extend his frowning friend a hand.

The firemen were filing from the room.

Kelly saw the guys within earshot exchanging grins. "Right behind yah, Baloney!" he quickly came back, and those within hearing range snickered. Chet disposed of his end of Henry. Then he latched onto the grinning, groaning paramedic's proffered appendage and got pulled triumphantly to his feet.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Six**

Meanwhile, clear across the county...

Joseph 'Rocky' Rockford pulled up to 29 Cove Road, Malibu.

The elderly gentleman parked his battered green pick-up truck on the paved lot beside a snazzy new silver Firebird. He climbed stiffly out of the truck and up onto the top porch step of his son's house trailer.

Rocky pulled a key from a pant pocket and unlocked the abandoned-looking abode's front door. "Jimmy?" he quietly called out and then entered without knocking. The man was more than a little surprised to find his son standing there in his kitchen, staring back at him.

James Rockford saw the look on his father's face and was forced to smile. "Hi, Rocky!"

"Welcome home, Son!" Rocky exclaimed, when he'd finally recovered, and quickly passed the trailer's occupant his mail.

"Thanks!" Jim acknowledged and started sorting through the thick stack of unopened envelopes in his hands.

"Mostly bills," his father informed him. "You look like you just woke up," he commented further and checked the coffeepot out. Yup! It was cold. "I didn't wake you, did I? I've got a brand new muffler!" he added in his defense.

"Actually, I was just going back to bed," Rockford corrected. "And no, you didn't wake me," he assured his dad. "It was the phone. 'Somebody' must've turned off my answering machine…"

That 'somebody' stood there for a few seconds, feigning innocence, then he held the cold, empty container in his right hand up. "You want a cup?"

"No. But you can make a pot if you want."

Rocky started making the coffee, but then something occurred to him and he stopped to stare disbelievingly at his disturbed offspring. "Who on earth would be calling you at this ungodly hour of the morning?" he demanded, his voice oozing with sarcasm.

Jim suppressed a grin and then informed his disturbing dad, "Some fireman."

His dad's eyebrows arched. "A fireman? What did he want?"

"I don't know," Rockford replied, this time suppressing a yawn. "I didn't give him a chance to say. I told him I was taking a few days off."

Rocky's face suddenly lit up. "Was that on the level?"

Jim released his grin and nodded.

His father looked hopeful. "Does this mean you'll have some time for that fishing trip we've been talking about," he paused, "for so-o lo-ong?"

"Gee. I don't know, Rocky," his son teased. "I just got back and I am awfully tired. Why, I'm so exhausted I'm not sure I could even hold on to a fishing rod." He saw his father's expression turning glum again and quickly added, "But I'd sure be willing to give it a try!"

"Oh, Son!" Rocky blurted, his face now beaming with joy. "We're going to have a wonderful time! You'll see! When can we leave?"

"This afternoon soon enough?" Jim proposed. "I, uh, still have some lost sleep to catch up on," he added rather wearily and flexed his slumped, aching-with-fatigue shoulders a few times.

"This afternoon's fine!" Rocky assured him. He saw his son reaching for one of the many unfolded newspapers stacked up on his kitchen table. "You can catch up on the news AFTER you catch up on your sleep! Now, go back to bed! I want us to get an early start this afternoon!" His father started heading for the exit.

"What about the coffee?"

"No thanks!" Rocky called back over his shoulder. "I don't have time for coffee right now. I've got too much packing to do! I'm going fishing with my son!" he glanced back and grinned. "See you later, Jimmy!"

Rockford returned his grin. "See yah, Rocky! Oh, and Rocky?"

His dad glanced back again.

"Don't make it too early, huh?"

Rocky rolled his eyes. "Goodni--morning, Son!" he exclaimed, and quickly locked himself back out of the trailer.

Jim Rockford smiled and began yawning his way back to his bedroom.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Later that afternoon, in the sleeping quarters of LA County Fire Station 51, two men were sprawled out on some bunks.

One was lying on his stomach...and had his face buried in a pillow.

The other was lying on his back...and had his face buried in a book.

The Station's tones sounded.

"**Squad 51**…"

John Gage jerked awake. His head snapped up off of his pillow and he stared groggily across the aisle at a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. 'What is Chet doing in Roy's bu—' "Da-amn!" he interrupted himself, right in mid wonder, and let his head drop back down onto his pillow.

Kelly heard the curse, lowered his book and gave the body he'd been guarding for the past—he glanced at his watch—ten and a half hours? a quick, concerned once over. "What's the matter, John?"

"Nothin'!" came back John's muffled reply. "I was just hoping that you were right about this all being just a dream, is all."

Chet shot his disappointed bunkmate, who seemed to be bent on suffocating himself, a sympathetic glance and then quickly changed the subject. "Man, I gotta hand it to you, Gage. When you said you were tired you weren't just joking! I mean, this is like the twelfth alarm we've had today, and it's the first one you've even noticed!"

"Twelve alarms?" the paramedic repeated into his pillow, but then snapped his head up again. "What time is it?" he wondered, seeing as how his vision was still too blurred with sleep to clearly focus on his watch.

"A half past four," his topic-changing friend informed him.

"Wrong answer!" John teased, rolling onto his side and giving his covers a toss. "It's time for the two of us to get back to work!"

Kelly reluctantly closed his book, and even more reluctantly followed his well-rested, and only half dressed, associate out into the garage.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Back at 29 Cove Road, Malibu, Rocky came honking up to the house-trailer and parked beside his son's shiny new silver Firebird again. Once again, he got out and hurried up onto the porch. Only, this time, he didn't need to reach for his key.

Jim jerked the front door open for him. "What took you so long, Rocky?" he kidded. "I thought you'd never get here!"

"And I thought I'd find you still in bed!" his father teased right back.

"What do you mean?" Rockford innocently inquired. "Why, I'll have you know that I've been up for over…" he glanced at his watch, "two whole minutes now!"

Rocky shot his son an 'I thought so' look and then turned his attention to the automatic coffee maker which, he noted with delight, had just stopped dripping. "Why, thank you, Son!" he hinted. "I'd love a cup!"

And it was Jim's turn to roll his eyes. He poured them both some coffee. Then he took his steaming cup and collapsed onto a chair at his kitchen table, which, he noted in amazement, was piled high with yesterday's news...and the day's before…and the day's before that...etc., etc.. 'I've been gone a lot longer than I realized,' he realized and pulled one of the papers from the stack.

His dad reached over and grabbed three or four of the unread papers, himself.

"What are you doing?" Rockford cautiously inquired.

"You'll never have time to read all these," his father figured. "I thought I'd bring some along to wrap our fish in."

"No way!" his son adamantly stated and snatched the papers back. "I don't pay a hundred and fifty-five dollars a year for _fish wrapping_!"

"When are you ever gonna find the time to read all these?" Rocky wondered, rephrasing his initial statement of fact into a good question.

Jim's replied with a question of his own. "Who said anything about reading? I just like to look at the pictures," he confessed and glanced down at the front page of the paper in his hands. "A picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words, anyways..." his voice trailed off and he sat there, staring down at the touching photo of an LA County Fire Department paramedic leaning over Victor Nardis.

He noticed the numbers **5 1** on the helmet in the fireman's lap. **51**... Wasn't that the number of the Station that Captain said had the problem? 'If Victor Nardis has gotten you guys involved with Nicholas Gardino,' he silently told the fireman in the photo, 'you would have a _problem_ all right...a BIG one!'

Rocky looked irritated. "If it takes you that long just to look at the pictures, you might as well read the whole article!"

"Sorry, did you say something, Dad?" Jim wondered, snapping back to reality.

His father looked even more annoyed. "Yeah! I said, why don't we go...before it gets so dark we won't be able to see to bait the hooks!"

"Great idea!" Rockford conceded. Then he got up and crossed quickly over to his desk. "But first, I've got to make a phone call."

Rocky frowned and gave his perpetually busy son's back an 'It figures!' glare.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Clear back across the county, at Station 51…

Marco got up and answered the ringing phone on the rec' room wall. "Station 51. Fireman Lopez. Yes he is. Hang on," Lopez turned to the Station's Commander In Chief. "Cap! It's for you."

"Thanks, Marco," his Captain acknowledged as Lopez passed him the phone. "Station 51. Captain Stanley speaking."

"Hello, Captain? This is James Rockford speaking."

"Oh. Yes. Mr. Rockford. What can I do for you?"

"Well, this morning you said you had a problem at your Fire Station. That problem wouldn't happen to have anything to do the story on the front page of Tuesday's paper, would it?"

"Yes, it certainly would!"

"I was afraid of that."

"Why?"

"Let me see if I can guess what your problem is. Someone has approached you because they think Victor Nardis may have given you something before he died, right?"

Stanley lowered the phone and stared down at it in amazement for a few moments before holding it back up to his ear. " You've got it right—except for one thing. It's not happening to me. It's happening to one of my men."

"The paramedic in the picture?"

"Yes."

"Captain, I suggest you tell him to go to the police. Victor Nardis' companions don't make for very nice company. He could be in BIG trouble!"

"He's already been to the police. They said they can't do anything until some crime has been committed."

"A crime has been committed. I'd be willing to bet the men who are causing your problem are the same guys who filled Victor Nardis' plane full of bullet holes. Now, I'm going to give you the number of a Sergeant over at the LAPD. Call him and explain your situation over there. Once he hears what's going on, I'm sure he'll help you."

"Thank you, Mr. Rockford!"

"You're welcome. His name is Sergeant Dennis Becker and you can reach him at Ventura 787-6212."

Stanley repeated the number and copied it down.

"Oh, and Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Tell your man to watch his back. Until the police act on this, I don't think he could possibly be too careful. The guys he's up against play awfully rough!"

"Thank you, Mr. Rockford," Stanley repeated. "I'll tell him. Does this mean that you've changed your mind about taking some time off?"

"No-o, no. This is just a friendly phone call to ease my conscience. I'm going fishing with my father."

"In that case, I hope you catch your limit! And I want you to know that I think you belong on the TOP of the list!"

"Why, thank you, Captain…" Rockford acknowledged rather uncertainly. "Goodbye and good luck!"

"Same to you!" Hank declared in dead earnest.

The phone went dead.

Stanley got the dial tone back and started punching in the numbers he'd just been given.

"I didn't see the car last time out," Mike commented to Marco. "You think he really did get rid of them?"

Lopez shrugged and turned to the person in charge. "Do you think they're still out there, Cap?"

"I hope not. Mr. Rockford seems fairly certain that the guys who are following Gage are also responsible for that plane wreck. We have the license number and some pretty good descriptions. Who knows? Maybe we can help the police solve their ca—" he stopped talking to Lopez and started speaking to the person who'd finally picked up the phone. "Sergeant Dennis Becker?"

"Yes, this is Becker. Who's calling, please?"

"This is Captain Hank Stanley, Los Angeles County Fire Department Station 51."

"What can I do for you, Captain?"

"It's rather complicated. I guess I should start with the plane wreck—"

"—What plane wreck?"

"The one on the front page of Tuesday's pa—"

"—You have information concerning that?"

"Yes. Yes, I believe we do—"

"—Then I suggest you contact either the CHP or the LA County Sheriff's Department."

"You don't understand. We—"

"—Captain, the LAPD isn't involved in that case. So, you see, even if I wanted to, I couldn't help you. It's out of our jurisdiction. Now, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. I'm right in the middle of a booking. Goodbye."

The phone in his hand went dead. Stanley frowned and slammed it down. "The twit kept interrupting! He wouldn't let me explain anything!" he glumly explained to his engine crew.

He and his disappointed men suddenly tensed, as the Station's alarming alarm went off.

"**Engine 51…**" the dispatcher began and they began filing from the room. "**Refuse fire...**"

TBC

Author's note: CHP stands for California Highway Patrol.


	7. Chapter 7

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Seven**

Less than a minute later, two sinister looking black sedans pulled up and parked in the little paved lot of the furniture mart across the street from the Fire Station. They arrived just in time for their occupants to see Engine 51 disappear off down the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

A man got out of one of the cars and stepped up to the passenger window of the other.

Phillip pushed a button and the Lincoln Continental's window lowered.

"I set a fire in a dumpster in an alley a few blocks from here," the man standing outside the car confessed. "Should keep them pretty busy for awhile."

Phillip nodded approvingly and started exiting the car he was in. "You sure he's in there?"

The arsonist nodded. "Mark's been watching the back door and Brent's been watching the front."

"Then, let's go!" Phillip ordered, looking and sounding positively delighted.

Both cars emptied and eight evil-looking, gun-toting goons started off across the street.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Lenny picked the Station's back door lock. Then he and Phillip pulled their guns and quietly entered the building.

The two creeps crept across the deserted garage.

Lenny unlocked the front door and let their six equally creepy companions in.

Phillip motioned for them to be quiet.

Then they fanned out to search the place.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

In the day room, Henry was lapping away at his water bowl. He heard footsteps in the garage and froze. The hair bristled on his back. As Phillip and Lenny stepped cautiously into the room, the dog recognized the blond man from the park that morning and gave the guy another, low, deep-throated growl.

The two bad guys beat a hasty retreat as the growl quickly gave way to vicious barking.

Henry let out a howl and went racing off after the men.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The rest of the Station's unwelcome visitors regrouped in the garage and then headed over to investigate all that barking.

They found their boss, and his chauffeur, treed on a desk in the Captain's office.

The arsonist grabbed the office door's knob and yelled, "Make a run for it!"

The two trapped men hesitated for a moment, but then dove off the desk and raced back out of the office with the Basset hound snapping viciously at their heels.

The firebug slammed the door, shutting the dog up inside the room.

Phillip gave his grinning rescuer an icy, un-amused glare.

"He, uh, must a' been on the floor of the fire truck," the arsonist sheepishly determined, wiping the grin from his face. "Do you want us to check his apartment?"

Their angry leader suddenly brightened. "We're going at this all wrong! C'mon! I've got a better plan," he announced and started heading for the deserted Fire Station's front door.

Mr. Gardino's men exchanged highly skeptical glances, but then obediently followed their boss' nephew back out of the big empty garage.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Twenty minutes later, DeSoto backed the Squad in.

He and Brice sat there in the Station's apparatus bay, staring at the two strange gentlemen standing in front of their call desk.

"Can we help you?" Roy wondered, speaking out his open window…over the sounds of muffled barking and a noisy, descending garage door.

"Internal Affairs," the taller of the two cryptically commented, and they both flashed fire department badges.

No sooner did the garage door finish its descent, when it clicked and began ascending again.

The paramedics exited their Squad and then watched as Stoker began backing Engine 51 into its parking bay.

"Why did you lock our dog in the Captain's office?" Craig inquired, over Henry's incessant muffled barking.

"We didn't!" the shorter I.A. guy assured them. "He was in there when we arrived."

Captain Stanley and his skeleton engine crew came stepping up.

"What's with Henry?" Hank demanded, over the dog's constant and annoying yapping.

"He's probably sore cuz' you guys locked him in your office," Roy reasoned.

"We didn't lock him in my office'," his Captain clarified and crossed over to let the complaining mutt out.

Henry went charging over to the front door and then stood there, barking and barking.

"There was no one here," the taller I.A. guy told them. "So we let ourselves in. Hope you don't mind," he added, seeing that the Station's Captain already seemed overly annoyed.

Brice, who had been studying the oddly behaving Basset hound, turned to stare at their apologetic guest in confusion. "No one here?" he numbly repeated. Then he stiffened and turned to his Captain. "They must have kidnapped John!" he reasoned rather alarmedly.

Stanley gave Craig an 'oh, brother' look. "We dropped Gage and Kelly off at our call address over on Gordon Avenue," he announced for the benefit of the two shocked strangers, and the alarmed paramedic's rather pale looking partner. "John wanted to go back to work, but he didn't have a clean uniform. They took a cab to the nearest Laundromat. I expect the both of them to be back here in an hour or so," he further informed them. Then he stared at their apologetic guest looking more than a little confused himself. "What do you mean you let yourselves in?"

"No one answered the buzzer...and the door was open...so we walked in," the shorter uninvited visitor recapped for the Captain, and flashed him his badge.

"What's wrong, Captain?" the I.A. guy's taller companion inquired, seeing their host staring off across the garage at the Station's open door.

"Nothing," Stanley assured him. "Except that the doors were all locked when we left!"

Their secretive guests glanced solemnly at each other as the significance of the Captain's last statement slowly sank in.

"Humph!" Stanley muttered, as something suddenly also dawned on him. "I believe breaking and entering is a crime! Maybe now the police will find the time to help us out here!" he reasoned, his voice filled with bitter sarcasm. "Excuse me while I make a phone call," he requested and stepped into his office to do just that.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

"You guys wanna step in here a minute?" Stanley called out a few seconds later, to the guys still in the garage.

The six firemen obligingly joined the Captain in his office.

Stanley was just standing there, staring solemnly down at—two perfect sets of dusty footprints on his desk! "Good thing John wanted to go back to work."

His guests exchanged equally solemn glances and then stiffened as the Station's alarm went off.

"**Station 51**…"

"Go on, Captain!" the tall Internal Affairs fellow urged. "We'll phone the police and then stay with Gage and Kelly until they get here!"

Stanley was about to leave when something suddenly occurred to him. "No offense, fellahs…but can I see some identification? Besides your badges…"

They passed the extremely cautious Captain their official Fire Department photo I.D.s.

Stanley scrutinized them, most carefully, before handing them back and heading for the garage.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

One hour and fifteen minutes later, a cab pulled up, in the pouring rain, and deposited its passengers in the parking lot behind Station 51.

Kelly paid the cab's driver off and the vehicle vanished.

Chet hurried over to his car and started rolling his windows up. That's when he spotted an unfamiliar automobile parked in the space beside his. His stomach knotted. But then, he noticed it was sporting official Fire Department plates. Kelly relaxed, for an instant, and turned his undivided attention back to John—who was standing by the back door, hunched over his laundry basket, using his body to shelter his just dried uniforms from the pelting drops of water.

Seeing as how his hands were full, Gage was expecting his lollygaging friend to get the door for him. When Kelly failed to do so—in an expeditious manner—the growing soggier by the second paramedic exhaled an impatient gasp. "Get the door, will yah!" he griped, but then politely tacked on a, "Please?"

"I'm your bodyguard—not your butler!" Chet reminded him, as he came trotting back up, soaking wet. "But, since you used the magic word..." Kelly pulled a set of keys from his pocket and started fumbling with the lock. He stopped suddenly and tried the knob. "Just as I thought!" he announced as the door swung open. "The Internal Affairs guys must've left it unlocked."

"What Internal Affairs guys?" Gage wondered, elbowing his way in out of the rain. He straightened up to shake the water droplets from his sopping wet hair and saw two official-looking Fire Department dudes staring back at him.

"Those Internal Affairs guys!" his companion smartly replied and pointed a dripping finger at their dry visitors.

"John Gage?" the taller I.A. guy inquired of them.

"Uh-uh...I'm John," Gage confessed.

"We need to talk," the tall dude's vertically challenged associate announced.

"Look," John told them as they held their Fire Department photo I.D.s up in front of his rain-streaked face, "right now, I gotta go jump in the shower. You can talk to Chet, here…" he motioned his soggy head in his mustached shadow's direction,"'til I get out." He carted his laundry basket off across the garage and then disappeared into the locker room.

Sensing that neither of their two disappointed visitors had the slightest desire to talk to him, Chet turned to follow his vanishing friend.

A loud, annoying buzzing sound went off, repeatedly, and caused a slight detour in his course.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled under his breath and headed over to answer the front door.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

"You got another visitor, John..." Chet announced as he came into the locker room. "She's standing out on the front porch right now, waiting for you."

Gage had his clean clothes stowed away and was starting to strip. "She?" he pulled his half-off T-shirt back on. "She who?"

Kelly shrugged his own shirt off and started getting into his uniform. "I dunno... Some grade school kid. She probably wants to sell you a magazine subscription or something."

"And you left her waiting out on the porch?" the paramedic pulled his shirt back on but left it unbuttoned.

"It's got a roof!" Chet said in his defense. "Besides, she didn't want to leave her bike out on the lawn."

"Yeah, well...It's a good thing you're not my butler," John teased. "Or I'd have to fire you! Leavin' some poor little kid standin' out in the rain," he mumbled in mock disgust. Then he grinned and disappeared out the door.

Kelly gave the mumbler's back an annoyed glare, but then he grinned and stepped over to stand in the doorway to the garage, so's he could keep a close watch on his charge.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

John crossed over to the Station's front door and pulled the heavy portal open.

A little dark-haired girl in a purple raincoat with a matching hood appeared. She was standing there on the porch, holding onto the handlebars of a brand new, bright yellow 10 speed, and looking a little nervous.

Hoping to put the kid at ease, John flashed her his most charming smile. "Hi! I'm John. You wanted to see me?"

The girl pulled a slip of paper from one of her coat's flapped pockets and passed it to the paramedic. Then she hopped back up on her bicycle and started to leave.

"He-ey! Wait a minute!" John called after her. "What—?" he saved his breath.

The bike was a 10 speed all right, and the girl was already halfway down the block.

He stared after the kid in confusion for a few moments and then unfolded the slip of paper in his right hand.

It was a note...addressed to him...and it said—John's jaw dropped, his heart skipped a beat or two and his blood ran cold.

The realization that Stinky was probably watching him was the only thing that kept him from staggering back into the call desk.

He regained his composure enough to be able to walk and went striding off in the direction of the washroom. He saw his shadow standing in the doorway to the locker room, shooting him a questioning glance. "You were right! I bought some magazines from her last week and she forgot to give me my receipt," he lied and waved the slip of paper, that was still in his right hand, through the air.

Noting that Gage was headed for the washroom, Kelly commented, "You can't shower in there, John. Unless you're about two feet tall."

"First things first," John calmly came back, completely ignoring the urinal crack. Then he smiled and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A couple minutes later, Chet, who was pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom door his charge had disappeared behind, finally determined that two minutes was too long for the body he was supposed to be guarding to be out of his sight. Besides, he figured the paramedic needed protection more than privacy anyways.

Kelly poked his head into the washroom and irritatedly inquired, "What's takin' yah so long in the john, John?"

There was no reply.

He stiffened and stepped inside to find out why. The room's frosted glass window was wide open and there were no feet visible beneath any of the stall doors. He picked a crumpled slip of paper up from the floor in front of the window, uncrumpled it and read:

**'****If you want your landlady to live, be at the park entrance in five minutes. ALONE!'**

Chet inhaled an audible gasp of horror! His first impulse was to crawl out the open window and run after his friend. But then he remembered that Gage was a high school track star. Even if John didn't have a two-minute head start, he'd never catch up to him on foot. So he raced out of the washroom via the door.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

"Call 911!" Kelly shouted into the day room. "Have 'em send the police over to the Charter Oak Municipal Park!" Then, to save time on explanations, he passed their appalled-looking guests the uncrumpled slip of paper. "Tell 'em to hurry!" he urged and then raced for his car.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

John raced up to the entrance to the Municipal Park in Charter Oak and slid to a halt on the rain-slick pavement.

He noted the time on his watch and realized he'd just set a new World Record for covering five city blocks in a downpour. He squinted off down the street and saw a sinister-looking black sedan approaching, at a crawl.

The car stopped twenty yards away and one of its back doors opened.

His landlady was shoved out onto the sidewalk, where she dropped to her knees.

The elderly woman's wrists were bound, her mouth was taped shut, her eyes were blindfolded and her complexion was cyanotic, the paramedic noted as he ran up and dropped to his knees beside her. "Ah-ah, Annie!" he gasped breathlessly and stared at the traumatized woman through blurred vision. "I'm sorry. I'm so-o...sorry!"

Then, before John could do or say anything more, two mean-looking dudes latched onto his arms and started dragging him away from her.

"Let me go-o!" Gage gasped breathlessly. "She can't breathe…She's got asthma…She needs...a doctor!"

The landlady's protesting tenant was forced into the sedan's back seat and the car sped off, tires squealing.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Less than 30 seconds later…

Chet pulled up in his car and screeched to a stop.

He scrambled out and hurried over to the only soul in sight. "Mrs. Gereau! Are you alright?" he inquired and tenderly removed the tape from her mouth so she could answer.

However, the elderly lady did indeed have asthma and her breathing was too labored for her to speak.

Kelly removed the blindfold from her eyes and the rope from her wrists. "Take it easy, Annie. You're gonna be all right," he promised and put his arms around her.

"I know, Chet…" the woman wheezed, "but what about John?"

'Yeah...what about John?' Kelly morbidly contemplated and continued to comfort the now wheezing and crying woman.

A patrol car came skidding up, with its lights flashing and its siren blaring.

"Call an ambulance!" Chet told the two police officers who piled out of it with their pistols drawn. "You CAN help now can't you?" he angrily added. "Now that a crime has been committed!"

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

In the back seat of the sinister-looking black sedan…

John was sandwiched between two even more sinister-looking men. He tried to pull his arms free of their vice-like grips and got a gun barrel rammed into his right rib cage. He gasped, in both pain and frustration and then glared at the back of the front seat passenger's blond head. "Why'd you have to hurt her?" he angrily demanded. "I told you…I can't help you…Why can't you believe me?"

"Funny," the blond fellah said, not sounding too amused, "she said she couldn't help us, either. Turns out she just wouldn't help us. Until we convinced her otherwise. Maybe all you need is a little convincing, too?" he slimily suggested. Then he tilted the rear view mirror and aimed a sick grin back at their angry hostage.

Their hostage had heard enough...enough to know he didn't wanna be a hostage! John decided he was going to part company with these sickos—the very next chance he got!

Which turned out to be at the next stoplight.

When the mean dude on his left released his arm to pull a hunk of rope and a blindfold from his coat pocket, John elbowed the guy—hard. Then he shoved the gun barrel out of his ribs and made a break for it.

Gage got the door open and one foot on the pavement before someone grabbed him around the waist. A blunt object was pressed, very forcefully, into one of his kidneys and he got jerked back into the car.

'Ahh-ah man!' Gage groaned mentally. 'Now I've got them upset with me!' he gasped, as the guy he'd elbowed elbowed him back—only ten times harder! At the same time, the guy on his right shoved the barrel of his gun into his ribcage so forcefully that it felt like he must be trying to give him another navel. Gage gasped again and then doubled over. 'Ahh-ah man!' his mind morbidly repeated, 'This just keeps getting worse an' worse!'

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Clear across the county…

The steady downpour had cut the Rockford Family's fishing trip short.

A soggy, but somewhat successful, James Rockford returned to his trailer at 29 Cove Road, Malibu and changed into some dry clothes.

He then picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory. "Hello, Dennis? How would you and Peggy like to come over to my place tonight for a fish-fry?"

"Thanks, Jim-bo," Dennis answered. "But I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain-check. I gotta work tonight."

"Oh? Sorry to hear that. What's up?"

"Kidnapping...assault...all kinds of good garbage," Dennis glumly informed him.

"Speaking of garbage," Rockford said with a snap of his fingers, "have you fingered Nick Gardino's henchmen for that plane wreck, yet?"

There was a brief pause before Becker came back. "What do you know about that?"

Rockford looked confused. "Didn't that fireman call you?"

"Yeah...yeah. Now that you mention it, a fireman did call."

Rockford's confused look turned to one of annoyance. "Ahh-ah, Dennis! Didn't you even bother to listen to him?"

"It was out of our jurisdiction! I told him to call the CHP. And, besides…" Dennis declared in his defense, "I was right in the middle of a booking!"

Rockford looked tremendously disappointed, and then even more annoyed. "Dennis, that paramedic's testimony can help with the case. Gardino's men have been harassing hi—"

"—How do you know all this?" Becker butted in.

"Because that Captain called me first."

"I see, but you couldn't help him because you were too busy fishing, right? So you sent him ta me! So, now I suppose it's all my fault!" Dennis determined, sounding more than a little annoyed himself.

"So now _what's_ all your fault?" Jim cautiously inquired.

There was another, longer silence from the detective's end of the line. "Gardino's men assaulted a little old lady and then used her to get to the paramedic."

Rockford grimaced and rubbed his suddenly throbbing forehead.

Dennis waited a moment or two for that bit of bad news to sink in and then solemnly continued. "We think they'll be bringing him here."

Jim sank into a chair, drew a deep breath in and let it slowly escape as a sigh of deep regret and frustration. "Gardino's not that stupid!" the private detective reminded the police detective.

"He was stupid enough to assault an old lady and kidnap a fireman!" Dennis reminded him right back.

"I suppose..." Rockford conceded and then he sat there, looking thoughtful. "If I hadn't gone fishing, who knows...?" his words trailed off.

"Yeah," Becker sadly concurred. "And if I had taken the time to listen to that Captain..."

"Okay, Dennis. We'll share the blame for what's happened and work together on this one. You got any leads?"

The Sergeant sighed. "Let us handle it from here out."

"Dennis, I told you. I feel kind a' responsible. A few names and addresses can't hurt. You know I'll get them on my own…eventually," he confidently added and picked a pad of paper and a pencil up from his phone table.

Becker exhaled another sigh, of surrender. "All right, but, if anybody asks, I didn't give them to you." There was another silence. "Phillip Langley. Gardino's nephew. 214 West Leaver. Apartment 12…"

Rockford propped the phone up with his shoulder and started writing.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

At Nick Gardino's beach house, five miles north of Rockford's place on Malibu Beach…

The black sedan pulled up and parked in the cottage's paved driveway.

Its identical twin pulled up a few moments later and parked right behind it.

Phillip turned around to examine the condition of their cargo, and cursed. The hostage was blindfolded only! "I told you I wanted him tied and gagged, too!"

"Yeah...well...the tape's in the other Lincoln," the guy on Gage's right arm explained.

"And the rope must a' fell out on the street when Captain Courageous here stepped out of the car for a few moments back in Charter Oak," the guy on his left added, completing their two good excuses.

Phillip gave them both a 'Do I have to do everything?' look. Then he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket and passed them—and their keys—back over his shoulder, along with another order. "Get him inside! I'll call Doc McKenzie."

"HELP! POLICE! HE-ELP!" Captain Courageous screamed as he was dragged—blindfolded—from the car and shoved up the driveway towards the front door.

Given the remoteness of their location, Phillip wasn't all that bothered by their hostage's screaming. In fact, he found the paramedic's impassioned pleas for 'HE-ELP!' somewhat amusing. As he exited the car and stepped out into the rain, that sickening smile of his reappeared. "Get rid of these and get us some fresh wheels!" he told the two cars' drivers before turning and running for the cottage's front door himself.

"Fresh wheels?" one of the driver's grumbled disgustedly under his breath. "Who does he think he is, anyways?"

"John Travolta!" Lenny replied with a grin.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

They dragged their uncooperative captive into the beach house.

'Doc McKenzie?' John thought as he was carted, kicking and screaming, down—what seemed to be—a long hallway, past—what felt like—a large window, and into a back room. 'Probably a nickname for a mob hit man!' Gage grimly guessed and struggled even harder to pull free.

The fireman was shoved back onto a mattress and then—while four or more very strong men held him down—somebody handcuffed his wrists to the bed's brass headboard. He struggled until he heard the handcuffs 'cli-ick', locking his wrists in place. "If you guys let me go," the prisoner gasped breathlessly, "I promise I won't press charges!"

Somebody gave his metal restraints a yank to make sure they were secure and then everyone began filing out of the room.

John waited until the sound of his captor's heavy footsteps faded off down the hall. Then he swung around, braced himself and kicked at the metal bar holding his wrists. It didn't do anything but hurt his foot. But he kept kicking it, anyway.

"Cut the racket!" someone ordered down the hall.

Gage ignored the order and kept kicking.

The heavy footsteps returned.

The group of meanies grabbed his legs and jerked him roughly back around, nearly snapping his wrists.

"Please! You gotta let me go!" the prisoner pleaded, as his ankles were tied to the corner posts of the bed's brass footboard. "Honest! I don't know anythi—" he stopped suddenly, hearing the unmistakable sound of tape tearing. "No-o!" the paramedic pleaded and started thrashing his head from side to side.

A pair of vice-like hands latched onto his sopping wet hair and held his head still.

"No-o! Do-on't!" he repeated in a panic.

Someone else forced his jaw shut.

"No-o!" he continued pleading through tightly clenched teeth. "Plea—mmm-mmm-mmm!" His words trailed off, as his mouth was taped shut.

The group filed out again, leaving the prisoner all alone—and in total darkness.

John lay there, breathing very hard through his nose. The paramedic realized he was hyperventilating, but, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to catch his breath.

Gage grew more and more light-headed and, finally, passed right out.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

James Rockford stepped up onto the porch of Nicholas Gardino's main residence, dressed in a deliveryman's uniform. He stood there, in the pouring rain, ringing the mobster's front doorbell.

A maid wearing a frilly apron and white cap finally answered the door. "Ye-es?"

"Package for Mr. Langley…Mr. Phillip Langley," Jim declared and held out a clipboard and pen. "I need a signature...line 16."

The woman looked unsure as to what she should do. "Wait here," she requested and disappeared from the doorway.

Rockford eased the door open and stepped in out of the rain.

"Looking for someone?" another woman's voice asked.

Jim looked up and saw a lovely young lady coming down the stairs in the entrance hall. "Mr. Langley," he repeated. "Mr. Phillip Langley!"

The girl winced. "I wouldn't say that name so loudly if I were you. If my father hears you say that name, he'll have a fit! In fact, you should probably go before Martha tells him you're here," she advised.

"Can't somebody just sign for this package?" the deliveryman wondered and motioned to the box under his left arm.

"Sorry," the girl paused, hearing footsteps approaching in the hall. "You'd better go!" she re-advised.

Rockford took her advice. He hurried out the door, down the steps and into his borrowed delivery van. Jim glanced back towards the house.

Nick Gardino was standing in the open doorway, clenching his teeth and his fists. The obviously furious fellow used one of his fists to pound the doorpost.

'Better the doorpost than my face,' Jim realized, rather relievedly, and drove off.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Nine**

"So-o?" Dennis said, shooing Rockford off his desk in the Detective Squad's office complex at the LAPD's main precinct, downtown LA. "Gardino and her cousin had a falling out. So-o?"

"So-o, this Langley character must've been acting on his own when he kidnapped the fireman."

Dennis tossed some papers onto his desk and sat down. "So-o?"

Jim shot his police pal a look of extreme annoyance. "So-o, that would explain the stupid moves he's made."

Dennis was dying to say 'So-o?' for a fourth time, but—seeing the look on his friend's face—decided against it. "I still fail to see the significance of your discovery!" he exclaimed instead, expressing the same basic sentiment as 'So-o?'.

"So-o, what's to keep him from making another stupid move?" Rockford frowned and lowered his gaze. "Like _killing_ the fireman..." he finished, softly.

Becker lowered his eyes and the volume of his voice as well. "U-us! Gardino's men are being rounded up as we speak."

Rockford shot the detective a 'Pardon me if I don't seem too impressed' look. "You don't even know where they are!"

"Neither do you!" Becker reminded him.

"No-o..." Jim thoughtfully conceded, but then smugly added, "at least, not yet!"

It was Dennis' turn to look unimpressed.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Back at Gardino's beach house, early the next morning...

John was still lying—wrists cuffed and ankles tied—in one of the back bedrooms. His eyes were still blind-folded and his mouth remained taped shut. In fact, the only two things that had changed were that his rain-soaked clothes and hair were a little less damp, and his breathing was a little less labored.

He'd had a fitful night. Between the discomfort caused by his restraints interfering with his circulation and being chilled to the bone by his wet wardrobe, the paramedic had pretty much spent the entire evening tossing his head back and forth in pain and shivering.

Gage decided he'd been lying there long enough.

Doc McKenzie would probably be arriving to…convince him at any moment.

He had nothing to lose by trying to make another break for freedom.

The prisoner started clanking his handcuffs against the metal bar of the headboard—making a terrible racket.

"Cut the clanking already!" someone shouted into the room.

"My maf mu mo mu ma ma-an!" John mumbled through the tape covering his mouth.

"The ca-an?" the person in the doorway repeated, sounding amused.

John nodded.

"Ma-ark?! Give me a hand in here!" the person called off down the hall.

"Now what?!" Mark irritatedly inquired as he stepped into the bedroom.

"He has to go to the ca-an!" the person explained, speaking through his nose in an attempt to mimic their hostage.

"That's a lousy idea, Andy!" Mark determined. "Langley sai—"

"—I don't get paid to empty bed pans!" Andy emphatically stated, but then his manner softened. "Besides, the two of us can handle this scrawny little guy!"

Mark reluctantly untied Gage's feet, while Andy freed his cuffed wrists from the bed's brass headboard.

The prisoner lay perfectly still while the cuffs were reattached. 'This is your big chance!' John kept reminding himself, 'So don't blow it!'

Andy jerked him up off the bed and onto his feet.

The two men shoved him out of the bedroom and started hauling him off down the hall.

John felt a warmth on the right side of his face and realized they must be passing the window.

That was when the scrawny little guy shoved his guards.

After freeing himself from his armed escort, the captive crossed his raised arms up in front of him to protect his face and then escaped his prison as well—by diving out the window.

There was the ridiculously loud 'clinking', and 'clattering' of glass shattering...followed closely by even louder cursing.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John continued to protect his head as he continued to fall, making an unbelievably lengthy and bruising head-over-heels descent down what could only be a rather steep—and very deep—embankment.

John reached the bottom of the two hundred and twenty foot cliff that Nick Gardino's beach house was built on and into.

"U-umph!" he grunted in agony as his tumbling body finally came to rest—on a rock . He carefully rolled off of the rock and then lay there, moaning and groaning and taking inventory.

No broken bones—just a lot of bruises. His dizzy head cleared enough for him to sit up, so he did.

He pulled the blind-fold from his eyes and winced at the sudden onslaught of blinding sunlight. He sat there, squinting off across the sandy beach at all the blue sky...and sunshine...and white-capped waves rolling in off the Pacific Ocean.

Under less miserable, lousy, crappy circumstances, he would have enjoyed the view. Right now, he found it depressing.

The views on either side of him—of endless stretches of deserted beach—were equally disheartening.

However, the view that greeted him when he turned around was the worst one of all. He stared up at the two hundred and some foot cliff he'd just tumbled down and watched as two men with guns came tearing around the side of the house he'd just vacated.

They peered cautiously over the edge of the precipice and spotted him.

"Ou-ouch!" John muttered, tearing the tape from his mouth. He shook some of the sand from his hair and some more of the dizziness from his head. Then he scrambled to his feet and took off down the beach at a dead run, thankful that the heavy rains had packed the sand down some.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

At the top of the cliff, Mark pulled his right arm up and drew a careful bead down his gun's barrel.

"Don't!" Andy declared and knocked his associate's arm back down. "He's moving! You might hit something vital!"

"He's getting away!" Mark reminded him, looking and sounding infuriated.

"C'mon! We'll take the car!"

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Meanwhile, over at an office in the L.A. County Courthouse...

A man came out of a filing room and set a slip of paper down on the counter in front of Rockford.

Jim examined the list of properties on the slip of paper and then inquired, "This is it?"

"Those are the properties he pays taxes on," the clerk assured him.

Rockford glanced up from the list. "Thanks, Leo. I really appreciate this."

"Find the bums before they kill that poor fireman," Leo came back, "and I'll be really appreciative, too!"

Jim nodded uncertainly and then started backing towards the exit, scrutinizing the list all the while.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John ran down the beach—non-stop—for at least a mile, before dropping to his knees for a breather.

He kept glancing back over his shoulder.

He found the fact that no one was chasing him both pleasing and puzzling...maybe even downright worrying.

He knelt there for a minute or two, gasping and gulping in huge lungfuls of the exhilarating—and salty—ocean air. Then he got back to his feet and started running again.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Back at the LAPD's Detective's Squad room...

James Rockford stepped up to Sergeant Dennis Becker's desk. He brushed his coat back and rested his hands on his hips. "You haven't found any of Gardino's men yet, have you..." he told, rather than asked, his sullen friend.

"Don't stand there gloating," Dennis advised. "We found the cars...We'll find them. We've got over a dozen stake-outs—" he stopped as Rockford set a slip of paper down in front of him.

"You'll find them at one of those places," Jim stated confidently and pointed to the list of properties on the officer's desk.

"All right, we'll check 'em out," the policeman promised.

Rockford looked pleased—but impatient. "Now?"

Becker's shoulders sagged in surrender. He pushed his chair back, got to his feet, grabbed his coat and the list and stomped past the pushy private eye. "Now."

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John ran until he couldn't run anymore. Then he dropped to his knees again—exhausted.

His aching lungs were threatening to burst.

He looked up at the cliff to his left and stared at all the fancy beach homes lining its ridge. "I've got to get…to a phone!" the getting nowhere fast fleeing fireman finally figured—right out loud.

Then he struggled back onto his feet and staggered over to one of the many wooden, zigzagging staircases leading up to the houses. He dumped the sand from his shoes and started climbing—grateful that the cliff wasn't nearly as high on this particular stretch of the beach.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Gage reached the top of the hundred and thirty-five foot cliff.

Three quarters of the way up, his already spent legs had given out on him, so the fireman had to finish the climb on all fours.

The panting paramedic pulled himself up onto the wooden deck at the top of the staircase and then crawled over and collapsed against one of the patio door's glass panes.

Inside the cottage, a woman in her housecoat heard the sound and stepped cautiously up to investigate its source. She spotted the panting person plopped outside her patio door—and his handcuffs—and started screaming.

"Help me!…Please?" Gage gasped, loudly enough to be heard through the glass.

"GO AWAY!" the woman ordered and started backing off. "GO AWAY, OR I'LL CALL THE POLICE!"

John nodded. "Call the police!" he shouted breathlessly. "Please…call the police!" he repeated and started getting to his feet, using the door for support.

The woman screamed again and disappeared into another room.

Gage gasped again, this time in exasperation.

He climbed over the deck railing and then hurried over to another house…where he climbed over another deck railing and banged on another back door. "Please?! Let me in! I have to call the police!"

"Who are you?!" a frightened voice called out from the safety of an inner room. "What do you want?!"

"My name is John Gage! I'm a Los Angeles County fireman paramedic! Some men kidnapped me! I got away! They're going to kill me! I need to phone the police! Look, if you won't let me in—at least phone the police for me! Please?" he pleaded.

He was not above begging.

Several silent seconds passed.

The Los Angeles County fireman paramedic exhaled another sigh of complete exasperation and headed off to try again.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Gage reached the back deck of the house next door, and decided to try a fresh approach.

So, the paramedic pasted a disarming smile upon his panic-stricken face and nonchalantly knocked on the patio door.

A teenage girl stepped up and stood there with a steaming cup in her hand and a beaming smile on her face.

"Good morning," John told her. "My name is John Gage. I'm a Los Angeles County fireman paramedic. I was wondering if I might use your phone?" he inquired very politely.

"Why are you wearing those handcuffs?" the girl wondered.

Gage glanced down at the metal restraints on his wrists and grimaced. "Uh-uhhh, it's a long story. Yah see, I was helping this guy in this plane wreck...and some men think he told me something before he died...but I don't know what...but these men think I do...and whatever it is must be pretty important...because they kidnapped me…and they handcuffed me and—" the paramedic paused, "they're going to kill me if they catch me again...and I really have to call the police…so can I please use your phone?"

"That wasn't so long," the young lady determined. Then, upon hearing the desperation in the visitor's voice, she further determined, "You're really serious, aren't you."

John nodded. "Deadly serious!"

The girl's bright eyes widened in amazement. "Man! That's really heavy!"

"So-o..." Gage glanced nervously around, "can I use your phone?"

"If we had a phone, I'd let you use it. My dad bought this place to get away from it all. So he never had one installed. Wanna cup a' herbal tea? You look hungry."

John's already slumped shoulders sagged even more. "That's not hunger. That's fear. And thanks for the offer, but I gotta go—"he stopped talking as something suddenly occurred to him. "Can I borrow your car?"

"If I had a car, I'd let you take it, but my folks just went out for breakfast..." the agreeable young lady explained.

Gage gave the girl a grateful smile and then hurried off.

He had this sinking feeling that _they_ were closing in on him and that he was going to run out of time long before he ran out of houses.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John ran up to a fourth house.

He decided he was going to force his way in and use the phone—with or without the home-owner's permission.

He stepped up and rang the bell.

A middle-aged housewife answered the door in her robe. "Ye-es?" she cautiously inquired .

"Please, don't be frightened!" the fireman urged, pushing the door open and brushing past her.

Once inside, John closed and locked the door he'd just passed through—uninvited. "I'm not going to hurt you," the paramedic calmly continued. "I just need to use your phone. I'm a fireman," he strained with his cuffed wrists to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He got it out, flipped it open and held it up for her. "See...I'm telling the truth."

She took the wallet, examined his Fire Department photo I.D. and untensed—a little.

"Where's your phone?" he inquired and glanced about the living room. "Some men are going to kill me if I don't find a pho—" the fireman stopped suddenly as the front doorbell chimed for the secondth time in as many minutes.

John dropped to the carpeted floor and went crawling off to hide in the kitchen.

The chimes rang again.

The woman stepped back up to the front door, but didn't open it. "Who is it?!"

"Police!"

The lady sighed in relief and started reaching for the lock, but then something suddenly occurred to her, and her hand froze. "What do you want?!"

"We're looking for an escaped lunatic! Your neighbors said he came here!"

The woman stared thoughtfully down at the photo in her other hand for a few moments.

The escaped lunatic was crouched behind her kitchen counter, holding his breath.

"He was here!" the lady lied. "I sent him away!"

"Which way did he go?"

"He was heading south! You should probably check next door!"

There was a long silence.

"Quick!" the woman urged, stepping into her kitchen and passing a portable phone to the Los Angeles County fireman paramedic. "They'll be coming back!"

"Thanks!" The paramedic gave the lady a look of undying gratitude. Then he flipped the phone over and pressed **9 1 1**.

"**Emergency operator. May I help you?**"

"Yes. This is John Gage. I'm at—" he shot the woman a questioning glance.

"321 Cove Road, Malibu," she replied.

"—321 Cove Road, Malibu," the paramedic repeated. "Some men are going to kill me! Send the police! Please hur—" he stopped talking as the front door was suddenly busted in.

Three big goons barged into the lady's living room with guns drawn.

John dropped the phone and made a mad dash for the cottage's back door. He pulled the portal open and ran right into the open arms of two more big, mean-looking dudes. He struggled desperately to get away.

One of the goons latched onto the chain of his hand-cuffs and jerked him roughly around.

The other grabbed his arms and they started shoving him—kicking and screaming—through the house and out the busted front door.

"Let me go-o! I told you I can't tell you anything! HELP! PLEASE?! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

The woman watched as the fireman was shoved into the back of a tan sedan. As it sped off, she got its license number.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Ten**

The second piece of property on the list turned out to be Nicholas Gardino's beach house.

James Rockford was standing in the cottage's hallway, staring thoughtfully out a shattered picture window at a small, dark object lying in the sand on the beach two hundred and twenty feet below.

Dennis Becker came crunching up—the shards of already broken glass on the hall floor shattering even further beneath the thick leather soles of his shoes. "He was here, all right," he told the pensive private eye. "Looks like they had him tied to a bed in the back. And—judging by the food still cooking on the stove and the fresh pot of coffee—they must a' been in an awful big hurry to move him!"

"They didn't move him!" Jim declared as he finally figured out what it was that he'd been staring at. "He escaped!"

Becker thought Rockford's explanation for the missing pane of glass over for a few moments and then summed up his opinion of it into two words, "That's ridiculous!" He then postulated on a more probable cause. "I figure the window must a' broke as they struggled with him down the hall here."

"He's headed south!" Jim stated further, noting the fresh set of footprints in the rain-washed sand—leading away from the object.

Dennis looked more dubious than ever and reminded Rockford that, "NOBODY in their right mind would ever dive out a' this window!" He emphasized his point by pointing out the near vertical drop of over two hundred feet just outside it.

"They might...if they knew they were on the ground floor...and they thought they were going to be landing on the lawn," Rockford reminded him right back and pointed to the small, dark object on the beach below them. "I'll bet you a hundred bucks that's a blind-fold!"

Becker was about to take the bet when a uniformed officer came hurrying down the hall towards them.

"Sarge! Headquarters just called! We got a lead on the paramedic!" the officer announced. "He placed a 911 call from 321 Cove Road about two minutes ago!"

"321 Cove Road..." Jim repeated, as the three of them turned away from the broken window and started heading off down the hall in the direction of their cars. "I, uh, believe that's about three miles south of here, isn't it?" he inquired, sounding very smug.

Becker shot his annoyingly accurate fellow detective a sideways 'O-oh brother' glance. "So, how is he?!" Dennis demanded. "Is he okay?!"

The uniformed officer shrugged. "The operator didn't know. The call got...cut off..." he let his grim words trail away.

The three men glanced solemnly at one another and then picked up their pace.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

At a nearby phone booth...

Langley was on the line with Doc McKenzie.

"No! I will not meet you at the beach house in five minutes!" McKenzie adamantly stated. "I just drove by there! The police were crawling all over the place!"

Phillip looked shocked, then confused and then thoughtful. "Then be at 1868 North Dragoon Drive in two hours!" he told McKenzie and slammed the phone down.

Andy came driving up in a dark green sedan. They dragged Gage out of the tan car and forced him into the back of the green one. Andy sped off.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Over at 321 Cove Road, Malibu...

Sergeant Dennis Becker was standing in the room the paramedic was in when he was kidnapped...again. He was busy taking the housewife's statement down in his little black notebook.

The woman handed the detective the paramedic's wallet and the car's license number. "He seemed like such a nice young man," the lady told the detective, between questions. "He was so scared. He said they were going to kill him..." She blinked her watering eyes and then aimed them at the police officer. "Is that true?"

"We're doing everything we possibly can to see to it that it isn't," the Sergeant assured her, but Becker didn't look or sound so sure. "Thank you very much Mrs. Stafford. You've been a big help. When you get dressed, we'd like to take you down to headquarters to look at some pictures."

Mrs. Stafford nodded her willingness to comply and hurried off to get dressed.

Becker closed his notebook and went back out to his unmarked police car.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Dennis picked up the car's radio mic' and thumbed its call button. "This is Sergeant Becker. I'd like an APB on **Ocean Ida 7731**. Vehicle is a '76 tan, four door, Lincoln Continental and was last seen traveling north on Cove Road. Suspects are armed and dangerous. They're holding a kid—re-kidnapped fireman hostage in the back seat. Run a make on the car's plates and get back to me."

"**10-4**."

Dennis replaced his radio and then watched as Rockford came driving up in his silver Firebird.

Jim held a slip of paper out of his car window and waved him over to take it.

"What's this?" the officer asked as he snatched up the proffered piece of paper.

"The license number and description of the other car and the creeps who were in it," the private eye helpfully announced. "Compliments of a Miss Cathy Ann Brickman. She's going to talk her father into having a phone installed—for emergency use only. Unlike the other two upstanding citizens he approached for help, she—at least—was willing to dial **911**. Cathy says she's really bummed the creeps caught him."

Becker had been studying the Fire Department photo I.D. in the open wallet in his left hand. "Not nearly as bummed as me..." the police sergeant sadly confessed, and went over to put out another APB.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

1868 North Dragoon Drive turned out to be a cute little six room cottage on a deserted stretch of Castle Rock Beach, ten miles up the coast from the beach house in Malibu.

The two dark green sedans pulled up and parked. All nine of their occupants exited.

Two brawny bad guys carted Gage—kicking and screaming—into the cottage.

"HELP! HE-ELP! POLICE! ANYBODY?! HEL—!" John stopped in mid-shout, as the door was slammed, and put all of his energy into trying to pull free.

The two meanies tightened their already vice-like grips and jerked him—kicking and thrashing—into another back bedroom—where he was shoved back onto another mattress.

It took four of them to hold him down while Andy took out a key and reattached his handcuffs to another headboard. They grabbed his ankles and Mark fastened them—securely—to the corner posts of the foot of another bed.

Speaking of being really bummed...

Gage grimaced and thrashed around, frustrated at finding himself back in the same exact BAD situation he'd just escaped from. Well, maybe not exactly the same. He stopped struggling, shut his eyes and started groaning. "Oh-oh, no-o...No, no, no-o..." Someone grabbed his head and forced his mouth shut. He opened his eyes and watched Andy press some more tape over his mouth.

There! All that was missing now was the blind-fold!

Langley leaned over their recaptured prisoner and gave him a backhanded crack in the face. "That was for all the inconvenience you've caused us!" he explained with a scowl.

The blow was more humiliating than hurtful and Gage found himself glaring defiantly back up at his attacker.

This seemed to upset Langley because he pulled his arm back to strike again.

"Hey, Phillip!" Andy said, grabbing the angry guy's arm. "There's no sport in that!"

Phillip gave Gage a look that made his blood run cold. Then he straightened his tie and went stomping out of the room.

The others followed.

John breathed a nasal sigh of relief and closed his eyes.

Alas, his relief was short-lived, as it occurred to him why they weren't bothering to keep him blind-folded anymore. Even if the…convincing...didn't kill him, they obviously intended to shut his eyes—and his mouth—permanently!

John hadn't recovered from the horror of that thought, when something even more horrifying happened. He noticed he was having a difficult time breathing. Something was plugging his nose. He snorted and turned his head—and caught a glimpse of something red out of the corner of his eye. 'Oh, grea-eat!' he thought. 'I'm gonna drown in my own blood!' He shook his head, but couldn't clear his nostrils. He started to panic.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Andy heard Gage thrashing around. He crossed over to open door and poked his head into the room to tell their prisoner to settle down. He spotted the paramedic's dilemma and hurried over to tear the tape from the fireman's mouth.

Gage gasped and sucked in a huge lungful of air...and another...and another. "Thanks!" he told Andy, when he finally got his breath back.

Andy nodded, snatched a couple of Kleenexes from a box on the nightstand, and wiped the prisoner's bloody nose.

John studied his nurse for awhile and then wondered, "How much…are they paying you…to keep me here?"

His captor looked curious. "Why?"

"Because I'll pay you double—triple…to let me go."

Andy stared dubiously down at him. "Now, where would a fireman get a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?"

John just lay there for a few moments—too shocked to speak. Then he cleared his throat. "They're paying you fifty thousand dollars?"

Andy nodded.

The prisoner contemplated his reply over and then inquired, "A piece?"

Andy managed another nod.

The amazed paramedic did some quick mental calculating and suddenly appeared even more stunned. "That's gotta be at least a half a million dollars!" he exclaimed and then looked curious. "What am I supposed to know that's worth **that** much?"

Andy didn't answer.

"What am I supposed to know that's worth that much?" the paramedic pleaded.

"That much," Andy reluctantly replied, "PLUS two and a half million more."

John was stunned into silence again. 'Three million dollars is a LOT of money!' the paramedic was forced to concede. 'More than enough money for some men to kill someone over...' he glumly realized. "Oh, well..." the forlorn fireman muttered, "at least now I know _why_ they're going to beat me to death."

"They're—we're not going to beat you to death," Andy assured him.

The paramedic looked ecstatic—and then skeptical. "But Phillip said that you were going to…convince...me to talk."

"And so we are!" Andy further assured him. "Doc McKenzie'll be here any minute now."

Their captive looked terribly uneasy. "What's he going to do when he gets here?"

Andy saw the fireman's nose had finally stopped bleeding. "You'll see..." he promised and pressed a fresh piece of tape over the prisoner's mouth—to prevent further questioning. "You'll see..." he rather ominously repeated and then exited the room, leaving the good doctor's victim alone with his thoughts.

Gage swallowed hard and lay there, trying hard not to think of what Doc McKenzie's specialty might be, but 'Scalpels?' crept across his mind anyways...and he shuddered.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

The wall clock in the LAPD's Detective's Squad room read just after two.

Sergeant Becker had been kept too busy to eat. He hung up his phone, got up from his desk and started reaching for his coat, draped over the back of his chair. He suddenly remembered something and picked his phone back up instead. Dennis dialed a number from memory.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Rocky. Is Jim there?"

"Just a second, Sergeant.. I'll go get him."

"Dennis?"

"Yeah, Jim. Just thought you'd like to know. We found the cars."

"Abandoned?"

"And wiped clean! They were both rentals, too. So, now we're right back where we started."

"Which was nowhere! What was the name of the rental agency?"

"What do you want that for?" Becker asked and began shuffling through the piles of paper on his desk.

"O-oh, just a hunch."

"Speaking of hunches, Captain Mosley was impressed with your lead. If the gutsy little guy hadn't already escaped, it would have led to his rescu—Here it is! Rodale Car Rentals. 444 West Fair Avenue."

"What? No phone number?"

"You have a directory. Let your fingers do the walking!"

"Okay. Thanks, Dennis. I'll let you know if this leads to anything."

"Thanks, Jim." Becker replaced his phone.

It rang.

The sergeant's stomach growled. He sighed and picked the phone up, instead of his jacket. "Good Afternoon. LAPD. Detective Becker speaking..."

The party on the other end of the line identified himself.

The police officer cringed and stood there, looking extremely guilt-ridden. "Oh, yes, Captain. What can I do for you?...No. I'm afraid I don't have anything new to tell you, aside from the fact that we just found the cars they used to kidnap him the second time...We have every available person on the force out looking for the guys who grabbed him. Hopefully, when we find them—we'll find him..." The cop cringed again. "Yeah, I hope we find him alive, too...Right! I promise I'll get back to you the moment we hear anything...Right. Goodbye, Captain." Dennis hung up, grabbed his coat and turned to leave. His desk phone rang again. He decided to take the call. He'd pretty much just lost his appetite anyways. "Good Afternoon. LAPD. Detective Becker speaking…"

"Dennis," Rockford said, "we're looking for two dark green, four-door, '77 Lincoln Continentals. License numbers **OI3311** and **OI7483**."

Becker held the phone away from his ear and stared at it a moment, before pulling it back up. "We are?" the incredulous cop inquired and jotted Jim's latest little revelation down.

"Yeah."

"And how can you possibly know that?"

"Simple. I noticed that all four of the rental cars they used were the same make and model. So I asked the Rodale people if the guy who rented the tan Continentals had specifically asked for Continentals. They said yes. I began calling other agencies and asking them if anyone had rented any Continentals, lately. Turns out a place—just down the block from Rodale's—rented two out this morning. They described the guy who came in—sounds like Andrew Ruger—and gave me a description of the cars and their plate numbers."

There was a long silence as Becker pulled the receiver down again and shot the private investigator a look of admiration via the phone.

"Dennis?...Are you there?" Rockford wondered.

Becker smiled and pulled the instrument back up to his mouth. "Yeah! Jim-bo, have I ever told you what a great detective you'd make?"

"Get some APB's out on those cars and find that fireman before those yahoos kill him—and I'll tell **you** what a great detective **you'd** make!" Rockford teased right back. "If you want me, I'll be at the courthouse."

Becker couldn't help but grin. "Why?"

"You've got all those places on the list staked out, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"And they haven't shown up at any of them yet, have they?"

"No."

"Well, they have to be somewhere! I'm gonna try to find some more wheres for them to be. See yah!"

Dennis heard a click. He got the dial tone back and placed a call to Central Dispatch. He smiled again as he realized he'd just gotten his appetite back.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Eleven**

Meanwhile, in the back bedroom of the cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

John heard footsteps approaching. He turned his troubled gaze away from the window and watched as some goons entered the room and gathered around the bed he'd been confined to. He noticed that one of them was carrying a doctor's medical bag. A grimace appeared on the fireman's face and his erratically beating heart sank.

Doc McKenzie set his bag down on the nightstand.

The paramedic watched as the man opened the satchel and removed a plastic hypodermic case, along with a small drug bottle. John swallowed hard and continued watching as Doc filled a hypodermic syringe with the bottle's unknown contents.

"Roll up his sleeve and hold his arm still," McKenzie ordered.

John shook his head 'No-o!' and started thrashing violently around on the bed.

Andy and Mark sat on his chest and gave his arms their vice-like grips.

Two more goons sat on his legs.

A fifth flunky managed to get the fireman's shirtsleeve rolled up, but their prisoner was still able to move around enough to prevent McKenzie from giving him the injection.

Phillip exhaled an impatient gasp. Then he stepped up to the bed and rammed the butt of his gun into their uncooperative captive's rib cage—very forcefully!

Gage gasped and groaned and was—momentarily—still.

Phillip nodded to the man with the loaded hypo.

McKenzie slowly emptied it into the vein of John's right wrist.

The paramedic felt the needle prick him—then everything went blank.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Four hours later, in the back bedroom of the little cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

The Mob's medicine man was seated in a chair beside his victim.

Phillip Langley was ranting and raving and pacing the carpeted floor at the foot of the bed containing their still unconscious captive.

"Don't blame me!" McKenzie shouted back. "I told you pentathol can be completely unpredictable!"

Both men stiffened as the prisoner suddenly tossed his head and groaned.

The doctor leaned forward. "Can you hear me?"

The prisoner failed to reply. His mouth was still taped shut.

Phillip ripped the tape from the fireman's mouth and gave him a few rough shakes. "Answer!"

McKenzie grabbed Langley's arms. "What's his name?"

"Ga-age! John Gage!" Phillip impatiently replied.

McKenzie gently but firmly nudged Langley away from the bed. "Let me handle this. John? Jo-ohn, can you hear me?"

John managed a slight nod.

The doctor looked pleased. "Goo-ood. What is your full name?"

The fireman licked his lips and replied in a whisper, "John...Roderick...Ga-age."

"What do you do for a living, John?"

"Who cares!" Langley demanded. "I can answer **that**! Ask him about the MONEY!"

McKenzie struggled to remain calm. "I know what I'm doing, Phillip! So stay out of it and let me handle this!"

Phillip reluctantly backed off.

McKenzie turned his attention back to the prisoner. "John, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a...a fireman...a paramedic."

"Do you remember the plane crash Monday?"

The paramedic nodded slightly.

"Do you remember rescuing Victor Nardis?"

Another slight nod.

"Did Mr. Nardis say anything to you, John?"

Again, the prisoner motioned his head in the affirmative.

"What did Mr. Nardis tell you?"

"He said...he said he...couldn't see...anything...He...he wanted to know if...if he was...dying."

"What else did Mr. Nardis tell you, John?"

"He told me…told me...to call him...Victor...Said he didn't have...any relatives...or friends...but me."

"What else did Victor say, John?"

"He...he said since…I was so nice…to him...he was gonna do...something...nice...for me."

"What was Mr. Nardis going to do for you, John?"

The prisoner didn't reply.

Phillip rushed up to the bed again.

McKenzie motioned for him to hold it. "John, what did Victor say he was going to do for you?"

Again, the paramedic failed to answer.

Phillip was having an incredibly hard time keeping his hands off of their silent captive's throat. "Ask him about the MONEY!" he re-demanded.

McKenzie sighed in surrender. "Where did Victor say the money was, John?"

Their captive moaned, but did **not** open his mouth.

Phillip motioned for McKenzie to ask again.

The doctor nodded. "John, where did Victor say the money was hidden?"

Still, John didn't answer.

McKenzie suddenly looked thoughtful and rephrased his question yet again. "Did you hear Victor say anything about the money, John?"

The fireman swallowed hard and shook his head no.

McKenzie looked somewhat amused.

Langley could no longer contain himself. He latched onto the fireman's shirt and shook him rather violently. "You're LYING! You must have heard him!"

McKenzie and two other men pulled Phillip off of the prisoner.

The doctor straightened his suit and tie and reached for his medical bag. He stopped suddenly, looking curious. "One last question, John. Why didn't you hear what Mr. Nardis was going to do for you?"

"Rampart…requested...an update…on vitals...I...I had my...stethoscope...in my...ears."

The doctor looked even more amused.

Phillip looked even more outraged. "He's LYING I tell you!" he stubbornly re-insisted.

McKenzie opened his medical bag, pulled out his stethoscope, stepped up to Langley and went to stick the ends of the instrument in the furious fellow's ears.

"What are you doing?" Phillip protested and knocked the thing away.

"Go ahead!" the doctor ordered. "Put these in your ears."

Langley reluctantly allowed McKenzie to insert the instrument's padded tips into his ears. He saw the doctor's lips moving, but couldn't hear what he was saying. He clenched his teeth, tore the extremely costly instrument from his ears and whipped the thing across the room. "You lousy fireman!" he shouted, pulling his restrained self free of his fellow goons' grasps.

Phillip stomped back up to the bed. "You LOUSY fireman!" he repeated. Then he grabbed the lousy fireman and gave him another backhanded blow to his impassive face. "Why couldn't you LISTEN TO HIM?" Langley struck their unresponsive prisoner a third time and then screamed the $3,000,000.00 question. "**WHY COULDN'T YOU JUST LISTEN**?"

The lousy fireman moaned in pain.

Remembering his little assurance, Andy latched onto Langley's arm just as the coward was about to lambaste their prisoner a fourth time. "You beat people unconscious, Phillip. You don't beat unconscious people," he added, his witty words as much a warning as they were a reminder.

Their prisoner groaned again.

Langley gasped in complete exasperation and reluctantly released his hold on their totally useless hostage. "WASTE HIM!" he ordered and started heading for the exit.

"Where are you, going?" Mark wondered.

"To figure out another way to get my hands on three million dollars! We'll be at the apartment on Boroughs!" the bully called back over his shoulder. Phillip disappeared from the room, taking three of the five goons with him.

The three remaining men turned their attention back to the bed's occupant.

The paramedic licked a cut on the right corner of his mouth and then lay there, moaning. John slid his aching jaw from side to side and forced his eyes open. He saw a room full of people staring back at him...six Andy's...six Marks...six Doc McKenzies...and a dozen unknown goons. He watched the six McKenzies place six stethoscopes into six medical bags. "You're a...a real doctor?" he asked, amazed.

Six McKenzies gave him six nods.

The fireman suddenly felt hopeful. "Then help me!...Get me…outta here!...Please?"

"I can't," the McKenzies told him.

The paramedic groaned and closed his eyes. Then he snapped them back open and stared up at the half-dozen doctors standing over him, looking totally disgusted. "You're…a disgrace...to your…profession!"

The McKenzies ignored him and left the room, taking the dozen unknown goons with them.

John drew in several deep breaths to fight off the drowsiness he felt and focused on the remaining Andy's and Marks. "Please...don't kill me," he pleaded. "I won't press charges...or anything...if you just...let me go...please?"

The Andy's glanced at the Marks. "I don't know about you, but I've grown kind a' fond of the little guy."

The Marks nodded in agreement.

The Andy's grinned and continued. "I just can't bring myself to hurt him."

Gage saw the Marks nod again. He closed his eyes and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. When he reopened them, the Marks and the Andy's were gone! "Hey...Hey, you guys!...Let me go**!**" he called out.

Silence.

"C'mon!...You can't just...leave me here like this!…I'll**—"** he stopped as it suddenly dawned on him, 'That's the idea, dummy!' Gage gasped and started tugging on his handcuffs and ropes. "Don't leave me here!" he begged. "Please, _don't…_leave me here!" He heard footsteps approaching and watched as the dirty dozen reentered the room.

"We almost forgot something..." the Andy's announced, stepping back up to the bed.

The paramedic stared up at them, feeling very uncertain about what that forgotten something was. Until he heard a familiar tearing sound. "No-o..." Gage groaned as the Marks held his head still and the Andy's taped his mouth shut—one final time. "Mmm-mmm-mmm!" their captive told them off, through the tape.

The Andy's and Marks stared blankly back at him for a few moments and then strolled from the room, looking highly amused.

John gasped again and struggled with his bonds until his wrists and ankles were raw from the effort.

'A complete waste of effort!' the fireman finally realized and allowed his aching limbs to go completely limp.

'I can go for weeks without food...' John reminded himself. 'And, THEY say a person can last 3 or 4 days without water...They'll find me by then.'

He looked out six bedroom windows at six suns setting on six Pacific Oceans.

The view was spectacular as the suns' rays created brilliant hues of yellows, golds, oranges and lavenders.

'After all, THEY also say that LA has the finest police force in the country. Or maybe I'll get lucky and this place'll catch fire—an' my fellow smoke-eaters'll come an' rescue me...' He paused, trying to recall the last time he'd had something to drink. 'A soda...at the Laundromat…' he tilted his head back and turned his wrists to squint up at six calendar watches. 'A little over 26 hours ago….' Heck! He'd be good for **days**, yet! 'Give or take a few…'

John swallowed hard and winced. It was already getting harder for him to swallow.

His vision blurred and the sunsets turned ugly.

'Ah-ah, ma-an! This just keeps gettin' worser and worser!'

The paramedic shut his damp eyes tightly and let the lingering drowsy effects of the drug in his veins overpower him.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

"**TV versus Reality"**

**Chapter Twelve**

Mark and Andy were driving along in one of the dark green Continentals.

The pair got to within a few blocks of the apartment on Boroughs, when a police squad car pulled them over.

They were frisked, read their rights, handcuffed and ushered into the back of the patrol car.

The two just sat there, looking un-amused and completely unconcerned.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Early that evening, at the LAPD…

Rockford passed Becker in the hall outside Central Booking.

Jim turned around and hurried to catch up to his friend. "Dennis! Wait up!" the private eye requested and had to almost run to keep up with him. "I struck out at the courthouse and I've used up all my other leads. You got anything?" he wondered and followed his friend onto an elevator.

Becker nodded and pressed **2**. "Andrew Ruger and Markus Hanley," the detective told him rather triumphantly and they began descending.

Rockford looked totally delighted. "Was the landlady able to I.D. them?"

"No, but hopefully our other witnesses will!"

The elevator stopped.

They got out, stepped down another long corridor and disappeared into a room.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Becker walked up to the woman who had helped the fireman that morning. "Mrs. Stafford, it was nice of you to come back down. Do you know why you're here?"

The lady nodded. "I've seen police line-ups on TV."

The two detectives exchanged glances.

The Sergeant ushered the woman over to a window and thumbed an intercom on the wall. "Send 'em in!"

A door opened in the small staged room on the other side of the window and five men in business suits entered—single-file…two suspects and three plain-clothes police officers.

Becker thumbed the intercom button again. "Face front!"

The men in the line-up turned their faces towards the one-way window.

The woman studied them carefully.

"Do you recognize anyone?" Dennis inquired.

"I'm not sure. It all happened so fast…but I think number five was one of the men in my home this morning."

"Number five, step forward please!" Becker ordered into the intercom.

Mark looked a little uneasy and took a step forward.

"A little more, please!"

Hanley reluctantly took another step.

The woman sighed in frustration. "They make this look so easy on television..."

The two detectives glanced at one another again.

Becker turned back to the window and stared at the other suspect. "Do you recognize anyone else?"

"No. I'm sorry. I'm not even 100% sure about number five. Have you found that poor paramedic yet?"

The Sergeant exhaled a sigh of frustration himself. "No, mam. Thank you for your help. You can tell the officer to take you home now."

The woman nodded and left the room.

A teen-aged girl passed her in the doorway. "Wow!" Miss Cathy Ann Brickman exclaimed as she entered the room. "This is so cool! Just like on TV!"

The two detectives exchanged yet another glance.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

In the little room with the one-way window, four eyewitnesses later…

Detective Becker glanced from number five to number two and back to number five again, looking tremendously disappointed. "They'll both be out on bail before the night is over!"

Jim's jaw dropped. "You can't be serious!"

"They'll post bond on the concealed weapons charges and we don't have enough evidence to charge them with anything else!"

"Frenetti picked Ruger out and Mrs. Stafford I.D.'ed Hanley!"

"It's not a crime to rent a car. There's no evidence that vehicle was used in the commission of a crime. And Mrs. Stafford _thinks_ it was Hanley. Her testimony would never hold up in court."

"Their fingerprints must be all over the beach house!"

"Of course they are. These guys work for the man who owns it, remember?"

"You're beginning to sound like their lawyer!"

The Sergeant turned to glare at his accuser. "Those two kidnapped the fireman! Ruger rented the car that was used to do it! And Hanley **was** one of the men in Mrs. Stafford's home this morning! We both know that! We also both know that the law says they're innocent until proven guilty! Without evidence I can't hold them! You think it isn't gonna kill me to watch those two walk?" Becker bitterly pointed out and aimed a finger at the goons behind the glass.

Rockford glanced at the seemingly unconcerned suspects. "In the words of Miss Cathy Ann Brickman, it's gonna really suck!" He turned back to Dennis and forced a smile. "You'll let me know before you let them go?"

Becker returned the smile and nodded.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

In the study of Mr. Gardino's home, later that same night…

The Mob kingpin was having a friendly little drink with one of his employees, a Dr. David McKenzie, to be exact.

Gardino laughed bitterly. "You mean, that imbecile went through all that—and that fireman really **didn't** know where the money was?"

The doctor nodded.

More bitter laughter. "Oh, that's rich!" his boss exclaimed, but then quickly regained his composure. "Did they...dispose of him?"

The physician stared thoughtfully into his drink. "I heard Langley give the order, but I didn't stick around to watch them carry it out. Being in close proximity to the ocean, I imagine that fireman is sleeping with the fishes right about now."

"And he's gonna have company!" Gardino angrily assured him. He turned to one of his three personal bodyguards. "Have Spencer contact Carter. Tell him I want Langley. I'm not particular about how I get him. Let whoever does it handle the…details," he determined with a sinister smile. "Assure them that I'll make it worth their while."

The bodyguard nodded and left the room.

Gardino stared thoughtfully into his drink. Something suddenly occurred to him, and he glanced back up at the doctor, looking irate. "If you and the others thought you were acting under my orders, you must think I'm awfully stupid!"

Doc McKenzie swallowed hard and avoided his employer's malevolent glare.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Back downtown, around eight the next morning…

A silver Firebird was parked just down the street from the LAPD's main headquarters building.

James Rockford was seated behind its wheel—sound asleep.

A car horn awakened him. He stared out his windshield—at all that daylight—in both confusion and disbelief. His recently opened eyes squinted down at his wristwatch and his disbelief gave way to tremendous disappointment—closely followed by extreme annoyance.

The peeved private eye hauled his stiff, sore self out of his car and went storming into the building he'd been waiting—all night—outside of.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Inside the building, in an office complex four floors above the street he'd been sleeping in…

Rockford stomped angrily up to Sergeant Dennis Becker's desk in the Detective's Squad room.

The seated police officer was forced to raise his gaze from the folder full of photos he'd been studying.

"You were supposed to call me—" Jim angrily began.

"—Before we let 'em go," Dennis acknowledged.

"So what happened?" Rockford practically shouted. "Did you misplace my mobile phone number?"

"We haven't let 'em go—yet!" Becker explained—speaking equally loudly, but then he quickly calmed back down and lowered his voice. "I talked to the DA. Turns out a paramedic once saved his son's life. So, he was willing to overlook the fact that we have no hard evidence—and push for an arraignment, anyways. The doctor photo I.D.'ed Phillip Langley and Leonard Morrow…" he continued and pulled the suspects' pictures from his folder. "Mrs. Stafford photo I.D.'ed Phillip Langley, Leonard Morrow and Brent Hobbson…" the detective added, singling out another snapshot. "Cathy—and the landlady—photo I.D.'ed Daniel Saunders, Wesley Atkins and Dean Lieberman. The Rodale guy photo I.D.'ed Saunders and Lieberman. And a couple of the firemen photo I.D.'ed Hobbson and Atkins, as well," the detective announced and added three more pictures to the pile. "Judge Richards has already issued arrest warrants on all six of these guys, and—since Ruger and Hanley work hand in hand with them—the DA is pushing for guilt by association. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for 4:30 this afternoon," the sergeant finished, and sat there feeling—and looking—quite pleased with himself. He glanced up from the folder and found his private detective friend staring down at him, looking tremendously displeased. The policeman's own look turned to one of confusion.

"Ah-ah, Dennis!" Rockford griped with a grimace and a groan. "You should a' let 'em go!" he lamented—rather loudly.

"What is it with you?" the confused cop inquired, his voice rising in both volume and vexation. "Last night, you had a hissy fit when you heard they were gonna be released! This morning, I tell you they're not gonna be released--and you have the exact same reaction! You can't have it both ways, Jim-bo!"

"Yeah, well...I've had time to think things through," the private eye promulgated. "I finally realized that the fastest way to find the fireman is to let them go!"

"How do you figure that? They're not going to lead us to him! **If** he's still alive, his testimony could put them both away for life! And they're not about to contact their cronies, either!" Becker reminded him further.

"Actually, I'm more interested in who is going to be contacting them..." Jim mumbled back, half to himself.

But the cop caught the comment. "What makes you think someone is going to be contacting them?"

"Oh-oh..." Rockford quietly came back, "...just a hunch."

Dennis stared thoughtfully up at his friend. "If my memory serves me, your hunches have all paid off."

"So far..." Jim warned him.

"Yeah, well...you've made a believer outta me!" the officer informed his modest amigo. "And, after that beach house tip, I'm pretty certain Captain Mosley's a convert, too. That leaves the DA. I just begged the guy to buy us some time to gather enough evidence to make the charges stick! Now, I gotta go back and beg 'im ta let 'em go! I _hate_ begging..." Dennis concluded, speaking beneath his breath.

But Rockford caught the comment. "You make me do it all the time!" the annoyed private eye pointed out, but then he broke into a broad grin.

"I do, don't I," Becker suddenly—and sadly—realized. He sat there for a few moments, looking extremely remorseful. "Here's hoping it works on the DA as well as it works on me!" he proposed and finally returned his friend's grin.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Nicholas Gardino and his daughter were seated in the breakfast nook of his home.

Martha poured them both some coffee and then headed back to her kitchen.

The gangster glanced up from his three-minute egg. "How's your mother this morning? "

"A little better," his daughter replied. "I got her to eat something."

"Great!" Gardino exclaimed. "Then you can go on to London like you planned! I'll have Nessman fuel up the Lear!"

"Thanks, Daddy. But I only fly commercial," the girl reminded him and then annoyedly added, "Besides, I'd rather stay with Mother. She's still awfully upset about this thing with Phillip."

Her father frowned. "You just said she's feeling better! I can take care of your mother! You need to honor another commitment, young lady!" he added, sounding very final.

The young lady studied her perturbed parent for a few moments. "Daddy," she paused, looking a little worried, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" the gangster told her, trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice came out strained.

"Then, why do you want me out of the house?" his offspring inquired.

"I don't want you out of the house," Gardino lied through his teeth. "Your mother and I—and your publisher—just want you to go on your book tour like you planned, is all!"

The girl lost her appetite and pushed her plate away. "Daddy, I know we have this...understanding…concerning your...business affairs, but I have to know. Did you have anything to do with the abduction of that poor paramedic?"

Her father almost swallowed his fork. The man coughed and tried his best to appear calm. "No-o! No. Of course not!" he replied—almost truthfully—but still avoided her eyes.

She wasn't satisfied with his answer, but she didn't press the matter any further.

For the umpteenth time, in her nineteen years of life, the girl decided just to 'look the other way'.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

"**TV versus Reality"**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Back at the LAPD, later that same morning…

Detective Becker had just had another discussion with the District Attorney. He returned to his desk in the Squad room, reached for his phone, and dialed a number from memory.

"Hello?" James Rockford answered.

"Ji-im, I spoke with the DA."

"How'd it go?"

"The DA is an elected official," Becker began. "And—being a typical politician—right now, he's more interested in remaining popular with his constituents than he is the plight of that poor paramedic."

"He wouldn't go along with it..."

"No, the DA agreed to let 'em go, all right. He just wants to wait 'til after the preliminary hearing. That way, it'll look like the _judge_ is responsible for their release."

"Well, I can think of at least two votes he's never going to get!" Rockford bitterly proclaimed, casting a ballot for both himself and the missing hostage. "That poor paramedic might not have..." he glanced at his watch, "six and a half hours to totally waste waiting!"

"Make that three votes!" the Sergeant chimed in, voicing his own druthers on the foot-dragging DA.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Two hours later, in Nicholas Gardino's home…

The gangster spotted his offspring ascending the stairs in the entry hall.

Judging by the contents of her hands, his devoted daughter was bringing his upset spouse a lunch tray.

"Pamela?" Gardino called up to her.

The girl stopped climbing and turned to him.

"I wish you would reconsider taking the Lear..." he cajoled. "Spencer checked. There are no commercial seats available until tomorrow afternoon sometime."

"Thanks!" Pamela called down. "But no thanks! I told you—I always fly commercial."

Gardino's shoulders slumped in defeat. Then he mounted the stairs to the unbelievably stubborn girl's level and set a commercial airline ticket—and her passport—down on the tray. "Have a safe flight!" he wished, wholeheartedly, and gave the world traveler a slight peck on the cheek.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Outside the LA County Courthouse, 5:20 that afternoon…

Jim Rockford was seated in his silver Firebird waiting for Gardino's two goons to be released. His car was parked a discreet distance from the courthouse steps. He tensed as the suspects suddenly came skipping down those stairs and began climbing into a black sedan with Noel Carter—one of Gardino's many sleazy, high profile lawyers.

"The game's afoot..." the detective muttered, quoting a distinguished fictional colleague of his.

Rockford brought his Firebird to life, slipped its tranny into gear and followed the flunkies off down the street.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Inside the black sedan…

"Is he dead?" Gardino's legal eagle inquired rather matter-of-factly.

The two goons in the back seat glanced at each other, then at their watches, then at their lawyer, and shrugged.

The attorney in the front seat grimaced and sat there, looking like he was counting to ten.

"Langley told us to WASTE HIM!" Andy lightly explained in their defense. "Relax!" he advised their still uptight counsel. "It's not gonna take long for that scrawny little dude to WASTE away!"

"Yeah!" Mark agreed with a grin. "He's probably already WASTED!"

Carter's scowl deepened. "It would have been smarter to finish him off!"

"Relax!" Ruger re-advised. "The home-owner's in Europe—for two whole weeks! They'll never find him in time! Besides, we grew fond of the little guy. He's got a lot a' nerve! We admire people like that, don't we..." the goon grinned and glanced at his fellow admirer.

Hanley grinned and nodded.

Carter gave them both contemptuous glares. "Mr. Gardino wants Langley. He said he'd make it worth your while."

"No thanks!" Andy announced with a shake of his head. "I've got friends in Toronto. I'm gonna be on the next flight outta here!"

Mark looked thoughtful. "How worthwhile would he make it for an address?"

"Not very."

"I can't do anymore than that. The police will be tailing us."

Carter sighed and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

It was Hanley's turn to look contemptuous. "I'd just as soon keep my mouth shut!"

The lawyer reluctantly added four more bills of the same denomination. "That's it!"

Mark took the money. "222 West Boroughs. Apartment 8. He still has five of the guys with him."

Carter tapped the car's driver on the shoulder. "Goodbye, gentlemen!" their attorney told them as the vehicle pulled up to the nearest curb and parked.

Ruger and Hanley climbed out of the car.

It pulled away.

"Thinking about that fireman has made me awful thirsty!" Mark suddenly confessed. "I need a drink!"

Andy nodded his approval of his pal's plan of action.

The two parched-throated thugs stepped down the street and into a drinking establishment.

Two plainclothes police officers entered the bar right behind them.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Back at the cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

John Gage had spent the day drifting in and out of consciousness.

He came to and lay there, moaning softly from the constant—and excruciating—pain in his upper arms and shoulders.

'Changes in mental status—such as excessive drowsiness, lethargy and loss of consciousness—are all symptoms of advanced stages of dehydration...' the fireman somberly and silently realized.

He, uh, also had to confront the fact that he must've allowed himself to become severely dehydrated long before he was even kidnapped.

The paramedic continued to moan—and to run down a mental checklist of symptoms—sort of a morbid 'Preview of Coming Attractions'.

'Acute renal failure...metabolic acidosis...electrolyte imbalance leading to cardiogenic shock—dangerously high levels of serum creatinine and potassium—contributing factors...uremic poisoning...swelling of, and decrease of sensation in, the extremities...nausea...vomiting blood...ringing in the ears...tremors of the hand...delirium...hallucinations...seizures...coma...and—eventually—death.'

John would've swallowed hard—if he could've swallowed at all.

The prisoner forced his dry eyes open and gazed painfully off at yet another spectacular sunset.

Gulls were soaring freely above the surf...white-capped waves were crashing onto the beach...where a young couple stood, hand in hand, admiring the breathtaking beauty of it all.

If the captive's stinging eyes hadn't already lost their ability to produce tears, his vision would've blurred right about then.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Following a three-hour drive through downtown LA—designed to ditch any tails attached to it—the black sedan pulled up across the street from 222 West Boroughs and parked.

Rockford had decided to let the police follow the flunkies on foot. He stayed with the black sedan—surprisingly enough—and was now parked a half a block behind it. The detective lowered his binoculars and picked up his car phone. "Ye-es, mobile operator, get me **Ventura 787-6212**..."

"LAPD. Detective Becker."

"Dennis, you might want to send a couple of squad cars over to 222," Jim paused, squinting through his binoculars in the dim streetlight, "West Boroughs. The pigeon has finally come to roost. Oh, and tell your boys not to make any noise. We don't want these birds to scatter—" he stopped talking as two men suddenly came out of 222 West Boroughs.

Rockford gazed through his glasses and was able to make out the familiar features of two of the flunkies in his friend's folder full of photos. "I gotta go. Saunders and Lieberman just showed up!" He hung up and slipped quietly out of his car.

Staying amid the shadows, he snuck off down the sidewalk.

"Danny!" Noel Carter suddenly called out.

Rockford ducked into a doorway about twenty feet from the black sedan and crouched there, watching and listening.

The two men across the street from him stiffened.

"Come here!" Gardino's lawyer continued. "I want a word with you!"

Danny and his companion reluctantly crossed the street and stepped up to the car.

"Get in!" Carter commanded them.

"No thanks!" Danny replied. "We're fine out here!"

The eavesdropping detective couldn't make out what the attorney said next, but he heard Danny say, "He's not in there! He said he was going to go find some protection. He took Lenny with him."

Rockford stayed put, not daring to get closer for fear of giving himself away. He saw two squad cars silently pull up and block both ends of West Boroughs off.

The driver of the black sedan spotted them, too and the car's engine came to life.

The two thugs talking to the lawyer decided to split.

"Don't run, you fools!" the attorney yelled after them.

A uniformed officer dropped to one knee and drew a careful bead on the fleeing flunkies. "FREEZE!" he warned. "OR WE'LL FIRE!"

The two stopped running and started raising their hands.

The men were frisked, handcuffed and read their rights.

Rockford waited until their weapons had been confiscated before stepping out of the shadows and up to the black sedan. He reached out and pulled the front passenger's door open. "You'd better call your lawyer," he advised Gardino's attorney.

Carter glared at the private detective, obviously un-amused.

He and his driver were pulled from the car, frisked and then handcuffed.

"I demand to know why I am being arrested!" the attorney demanded.

"Must be the company you keep!" Jim quickly came back, and pointed to the two other suspects in custody. "Consorting with wanted fugitives? How about accessory to kidnapping? And, I hope for your sake it **isn't** murder!" he angrily added.

Carter avoided the P.I.'s eyes.

"You have the right to remain silent," the arresting officer advised. "You have the right to have an attorney present while being—"

"—Oh, shut up!" the ornery attorney advised right back as he and his chauffeur were ushered over to one of the squad cars.

Detective Becker came screeching up closely followed by two more patrol cars.

"The paramedic might be in that apartment building," Jim told the Sergeant as he exited his unmarked car.

Dennis took several of the new arrivals in tow and started off across the street with his tour guide.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

They entered the apartment complex.

The building's visitors then made their way to the manager's apartment.

Becker banged on the door and shouted, "Police! Open up!"

It took a long time for the manager to answer. He cracked the door open, saw it was indeed the police, and slid the chain off. "What do you want?" he wondered, pulling the portal wide open.

Dennis held a photo of Phillip Langley up to the manager's face. "Do you recognize this man?"

The manager squinted and tipped the photo up to the hall light. He studied it a moment or two and then nodded. "He's in **8**. Along with about six other guys! Really strange. None of them ever sleeps here...they just come and go from time to ti—"

"—Do you have the key?" the police detective impatiently inquired.

"Well of course I got the key! I'm the manager, ain't I!" the manager reminded him, sounding more than a little impatient himself.

"Can you please open **8** for us?" the private detective politely inquired.

"I suppose I could," the manager told the gentleman with some manners, but then cautiously asked the rude dude, "You got a warrant?"

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Five minutes of fast talking later, in the hallway outside of apartment **8**…

The manager finally found the right key and opened the door.

The officers gave the place a thorough search.

"He's not here, Sarge!" a disappointed patrolman determined at last.

"And I don't think he ever was," Rockford sadly surmised.

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

"**TV versus Reality"**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Back at the LAPD's Detective's Squad room, five o'clock the following morning…

Sergeant Becker passed the private detective—collapsed in the chair in front of his desk—a steaming mug of coffee.

Jim gave him a grateful glance and watched as the exhausted police officer collapsed into his own chair with his own steaming cup.

"Saunders and Lieberman are in the hoosegow," Dennis thoughtfully proclaimed, re-sorting through the photos in his folder. "And Ruger and Hanley are still under surveillance. That leaves Atkins, Hobbson, Langley and Morrow still unaccounted for. By the way," he paused in his picture sorting to shoot his detective friend a look of admiration. "Mosley was most impressed with your latest tip. And, so was I. Sometimes I wonder why we just don't put you on the payroll."

Jim shot him another grateful glance and then stared glumly down into his half-empty cup. "A lot a' good it did us! We still don't know where the fireman is! And, without him, most of the charges won't stick!"

Becker smiled at Rockford's use of the words 'us' and 'we'.

The man with all the hunches drained the remainder of his coffee and started getting stiffly to his feet. "All we seem to be catching around here are the small fry. I'm gonna go knock off for a few hours. And then I think I'll try trolling for some bigger fish...over in Gardino's pond," he added and placed the empty cup down on the desk. "Thanks for the coffee!" he told his friend and turned to go.

"Jim?" Dennis called after him.

Jim glanced back.

"Be careful!" the concerned-looking cop urged.

Rockford flashed his fellow detective a warm smile. "Always!"

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

At Nicholas Gardino's home, around eleven that same morning…

James Rockford stepped up to the front door, rang the bell, and knocked.

The maid opened the portal.

"Good morning, Martha!" Jim said, stepping into the entrance hall. "I'm here to see your boss."

Martha seemed a bit distraught. "Who are you?"

"James Rockford," the intruder replied. "I'm a private investigator."

"It's all right, Martha!" her boss called out as he came stepping casually down the curved staircase at the back of the hall—closely followed by his personal protection.

"Yes, sir!" Martha backed away. Then she turned and hurried off down the hall.

Gardino and his entourage led the private investigator into the study.

The bigger of the gangster's two bodyguards closed the room's thick wooden doors and then stood there, blocking any access to them.

"All right, Rockford. What do you want?" his short-fused host demanded.

Rockford didn't like the tone of the man's voice. "No need to get 'huffy'. I'm here to do you a favor. Well, actually, to exchange favors," he corrected, seeing the mobster's look of extreme skepticism. "You tell me where the fireman is and I'll tell you what I know about Phillip Langley."

Gardino looked even more dubious. "You're bluffing! You don't know anything about Langley!"

"Oh-oh? Then you wouldn't be interested in his little plot to save his neck," Rockford reasoned and turned towards the obstructed doorway.

"What little plot?" his interested host inquired.

Jim turned back and shrugged.

Gardino's eyes narrowed into icy slits. "Don't play games with me, Rockford!"

Rockford heeded the racketeer's warning. "Langley and Morrow are working on a little scheme to gain themselves a some protection—from your wrath."

His host appeared to be even more interested. "What little scheme?"

Jim stared the mobster right in his sinister face and demanded right back, "Where is he?"

His adversary didn't bat an eye. "I don't know."

Rockford's own unblinking gaze remained riveted on the kidnappers' boss. "But you could find out..."

"You have a lot of nerve coming here like this!" Gardino determined. The corners of his mouth turned up somewhat and he suddenly looked shrewd. "What's to keep me from getting the answer I want without giving you the answer you want?"

"You mean **who's** to keep you..." Rockford calmly corrected. "Sergeant Dennis Becker and his boss—Captain Mosley know I'm in here. They're waiting for me—right outside."

Gardino's smug look vanished and his eyes dropped to his desk. "I'll have to think about this," he nervously announced. "Don't call me! I'll call you!"

Jim exhaled a silent sigh of relief and started to leave again. "I'll, uh, let myself out..."

The goon guarding the doors gave him an icy glare and reluctantly stepped aside.

The private investigator quickly exited the study, but then lingered out in the hall.

"Making more deliveries?" a woman's voice asked.

Rockford looked up.

The same young lady he'd met before was coming down the stairs, carrying a conglomeration of camping gear, artist's supplies a portable typewriter and a small suitcase.

He hurried over to offer his assistance. "Need some help?"

She gave him a grateful nod. "Could you grab that sleeping bag?"

He grabbed the bag just as it slipped out of her arms. He took the suitcase, too and then opened the front door for her.

"Thanks!" The girl struggled out the doorway with her gear. "I knew you weren't a real deliveryman," she informed the handy fellow, as he helped her pack the gear into the opened trunk of her little white sports car.

"Oh?" Rockford was impressed.

She nodded, stowed the last item away and slammed the trunk. "Yup! You didn't seem like the deliveryman type. The lines of your face show you lead a much more exciting life!"

Jim looked somewhat hurt. "What da yah mean? A deliveryman's life is exciting! Have you ever been chased by a Doberman Pinscher? Why-y, you couldn't ask for more excitement!"

The girl giggled. "Seriously, what do you _really_ do for a living?"

Rockford cocked his head. "What do you think?"

She studied him carefully for a few moments. "Your eyes are too kind for you to be a criminal, and you have too good a sense of humor for a policeman."

The kind, good-humored gentleman chuckled and extended his hand. "James Rockford," he introduced. "I'm a…private investigator."

She took and shook his hand. "Pamela Court..." she confessed. "I should've known!"

"Court?" Rockford gazed at Gardino's daughter in confusion. The girl seemed a little young to be married.

"I had my name changed," the teenager explained. "Look, do me a favor and don't mention the sleeping bag to my father. _He_ thinks I'm flying to London this afternoon."

"What sleeping bag?" the private investigator innocently pondered.

Pamela smiled and sighed in relief. "Well, I've got to get back upstairs. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rockford!"

Jim returned her smile. "It was nice meeting you, too, Ms. Court." He glanced up at the sky. "I hope the weather holds out for your camping trip."

Ms. Court started heading for the front door. "Thanks!" she called back over her shoulder. "If it starts raining again, I can always sleep in the cottage." She waved and disappeared.

Rockford did the same.

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

"**TV versus Reality"**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Pamela drove up to Castle Rock Beach late that afternoon.

She parked her car and then went to open up her cottage.

The girl froze, finding her front door already unlocked. Pamela cautiously pushed the portal open. "Is anybody here?"

No one answered.

So she swallowed hard and bravely stepped inside.

There were dirty dishes, empty food wrappers and newspapers scattered everywhere!

Her fear was momentarily overcome—by anger! "Well, somebody **was** here! A bunch of _pigs_ by the looks of it!"

Pamela stomped into her kitchen—er, what remained of it, anyways. "U-ugh! It's gonna take me _all weekend_ just to get this place cleaned up!" The girl gasped in frustration. Then she pulled her pouting chin up and went back out to her car to get her gear.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Ms. Court carried her suitcase and sleeping bag through the front rooms and into the back bedroom—where she froze again.

There was a body lying in her bed!

Pamela's heart stopped. She screamed and dropped her gear.

The body moved. "Mmm-mmm..." the dark-haired man moaned and began tossing his head from side to side.

The woman swallowed hard and stared at the stranger with wide eyes. "Who are you?"

The guy on the bed just kept tossing his head…and moaning.

The girl relaxed a bit, seeing the man's wrists were cuffed and his feet were tied. 'He can't hurt you,' she assured herself and she even took a few steps toward the bed. "Can you hear me?" she called out loudly.

The guy didn't show any sign that he could.

Pamela clasped her trembling hands and stepped right up to the bed.

"Mmm-mmm..." the guy groaned again and gave his handcuffs an involuntary jerk.

The girl gasped and took a step back.

Suddenly, the stranger stopped tossing his head and grew very still.

Pamela stepped back up to the bed and then stood there, debating what she should do. 'Go for the police!' half of her urged. 'No! Stay here and help him!' the other half insisted.

The motionless man's mouth was covered with duct tape.

She reached out with a trembling hand, got a good grip on the sticky strip and started tugging.

The girl jerked, as the guy jerked and moaned—and started tossing his head again.

Pamela drew a deep breath, held the moaning man's head still and gently ripped the tape from his tightly pursed lips.

"Ahhh—ahhh!" the guy groaned and slowly forced his dry eyes open.

"Who are you?" the girl demanded once again.

Once again, her dazed-looking uninvited visitor didn't answer. The guy quickly closed his hurting eyes and then tried to swallow. He couldn't.

Ms. Court hurried off to her kitchen.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

The girl returned, just moments later, with a tall glass of water. She tenderly raised the gentleman's head and carefully tipped the glass up to his bleeding lips. She managed to get one mouthful down him—before he began choking…and coughing.

The man choked…and coughed…for quite some time. Then he reopened his hurting eyes and tried to get them to focus.

The girl tipped the glass back up to his lips.

The guy eagerly accepted several long gulps of the water.

Pamela lowered the man's head back onto the bed.

The dark-haired stranger lay very still for several minutes.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John had spent the greater portion of the past twenty-four hours totally out of touch with reality.

Now, it seemed, every time he opened his hurting eyes—a glass of water appeared! However, unlike a person lost in the desert and dying of thirst—who only _sees_ a mirage of an oasis where the water's running free—he not only could _see_ imaginary water, he could actually _taste_ it!

His pained peepers opened again and he ran them up the figment of an arm in front of his face…to a girl—a pretty girl. 'If you gotta hallucinate,' the fireman told himself, 'it's nice that your hallucinations can be such lovely ones...'

The ghost of a girl gave him another drink.

His bleeding lips formed a crooked smile. He cleared his dry, scratchy throat and attempted to speak. "Th—Thank…you," he told the pretty apparition, in a cracked, hoarse whisper. His aching dry eyes began to droop shut.

The girl smiled back. "You're welcome!"

The body on the bed suddenly stiffened. Whoa-oah! Tasting imaginary water and seeing imaginary women was one thing, but hearing imaginary voices? It suddenly dawned on John that he just might be having a _lucid _moment. His burning eyes snapped back open. "Wh—Who...are you?"

"Pamela Court. Who are you?"

"Jo-ohn...John Gage...This your place?"

Pamela nodded.

The fireman's parched lips formed another smile. "I feel like...Goldilocks." His eyes were really smarting. So he shut them to ease the pain. "Pa-am?...You gotta get me...outta here...They'll kill me...if they come back."

"Who'll kill you?"

Gage shrugged and lumped the thugs into one, big, bad bunch. "Mr. Gardino's men."

Pamela's mouth dropped open and her eyes watered. "You must be the kidnapped paramedic!" She placed her hands on the fireman's chest and bowed her head. "I'm sorry!" she sobbed. "I'm so-o sorry!"

The paramedic opened his eyes, saw the girl's tears and stared up at her in confusion. "Pa-am?...I'd appreciate it...if you could…pull yourself together...Please?...I need your…help...You got a…phone?"

The girl stopped crying, shook her head and sniffled. "What do you want me to do?"

"This bed...come apart?"

She gave her pretty head another shake. "It's built into the wall."

The fireman frowned, but then brightened. " I don't suppose...you got a...hacksaw?"

Again the girl shook her head no.

"Any kind…of a saw…at all?" he inquired and was tremendously relieved when the little lady finally nodded. "Get it...please?" he requested.

The girl hurried from the room.

John lifted his head and stared out the bedroom window at the sun that was starting to set over the ocean. 'I wonder how many suns have set, since the last one I saw?'

Pamela returned, carrying a very small hand saw. She set the thing down and untied his ankles. She tipped the glass up to his lips again. "How long have you been without food and water?"

"What day…is this?"

"Saturday."

Gage gritted his teeth and slowly pulled his freed legs up. "Three days..." he quietly replied.

Pamela noticed one of the fireman's shirtsleeves was rolled up. She spotted a deep purple bruise and a puncture mark over the vein in his right wrist. She also saw the bloodstains on her bedspread. Her vision blurred and her throat tightened.

John saw the girl staring down at her wrecked bedspread. "I, uh…had a bloody nose," he explained, sounding extremely apologetic.

'Yeah. And it was **my** father who gave it to you.' The girl grimaced and had everything she could do to keep from breaking down and bawling again. "Where should I saw?"

The paramedic slowly and painfully positioned himself so he could supervise the project. "Right through…this board—here," he said, tapping the rather thick, ornate block of wood holding his handcuffed wrists to the bed.

Pam started sawing.

John shivered and lay there, with his eyes tightly shut, listening to the sound of the saw.

"Nicholas Gardino is my father," Ms. Court quietly confessed.

The paramedic's pained eyes opened—momentarily—and he gave the girl a sympathetic glance. That explained the tears.

"Two years ago, I changed my name and address, hoping I could somehow alter that fact, but I couldn't. He's still my father...and I still love him."

Gage gave the girl a sympathetic smile. "You don't have to…explain."

Pamela paused in her task. "I want to. I want you to know that I support myself. I even bought this cottage with my own money."

The paramedic appeared duly impressed. "That's quite an accomplishment...Considering you can't be...more than 20."

She forced a smile. "I'm 19."

"What do you do...for a living?"

"I write and illustrate children's books."

Gage smiled again. "Sounds nice..."

"It is. Want some more water?"

The fireman nodded and took a few more sips. His electrolyte scrambled body rebelled by sending the muscles in his ribcage and abdomen into spasm. Gage grimaced and groaned involuntarily as two terrible side-aches suddenly racked his midsection.

Ms. Court stared at the handcuffed hostage in confusion. The more water the guy guzzled, the worse his condition seemed to get. "You okay?"

John managed another nod. "Just some...bad...cramps!" he explained through teeth clenched tightly in pain. "Keep…sawing."

The woman set the water down and returned to her task.

The painful spasms finally passed. The shivering paramedic's head suddenly sagged to one side and his arms and legs went limp.

Pam saw that John was shivering. She set her saw aside and covered him with her sleeping bag, "You sure you're okay?"

The fireman managed another slight nod. "Just a...little...weak…Keep...sawing."

She picked the tool back up and started sawing—much faster.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Several exhausting minutes later…

The girl paused for a few moments, to give her aching arms a breather. She glanced down at Gage.

He looked so still—so deathly still.

Pamela lowered her saw and gently nudged him. "John?"

The paramedic didn't reply…or move.

The alarmed little lady leaned in low over the fireman's handsome face and felt his shallow breath on her cheek. Pam exhaled a huge sigh of relief and then started sawing again—faster than ever.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

In the LAPD's Detective's Squad room…

Rockford was leaning against Becker's desk with his arms folded across his chest. "Gardino blinked first!" he smugly informed his concerned comrade.

"Oh yeah? Well, I wouldn't feel so smug about your little showdown if I were you!" Dennis informed his cocky friend right back. "You blink last with that guy and it's liable to be your _last_ blink!"

Jim was forced to smile. "Anyways, I baited the hook. Now all I gotta do is wait for a little nibble."

Becker looked even more worried. "I hope you know what you're doing. Gardino is no ordinary fish. He's more of a **man-eating** **shark**!"

Rockford was forced to chuckle. "And Pamela thinks policemen don't have a sense of humor—" he stopped talking suddenly and looked thoughtful.

"Who's Pamela?"

Jim completely ignored the question. "I think I know where he is..."

"Who? The paramedic?"

Rockford continued to ignore Becker's questions. "Of course! The cottage!"

"Of course!" Dennis sarcastically agreed. "What cottage?"

"Pamela's cottage!"

Becker remained confused. "Who's Pamela?"

"Gardino's daughter. Pamela Court. Dennis, we've got to check it out!"

"Fine!" the detective told him, springing to his feet and grabbing his coat. "What's the address?"

Rockford shrugged.

"How are we supposed to check it out if you don't even know where it is?"

"I know this guy over at the county courthouse…"

"Even if it wasn't after five, this is Saturday."

"Then we'll just have to go ask Jaws," Rockford reasoned.

Becker now looked totally lost.

"You know," Jim teased, "'Jaws' Gardino!"

The sergeant rolled his eyes. Then he smiled and followed his still-grinning detective friend from the room.

**TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

"**TV versus Reality"**

**Chapter 16**

Back in the bedroom of the cottage on Castle Rock Beach...

Pamela finally finished sawing through the board. She pushed the piece of wood back, freed the handcuffs and lowered John's arms.

"Ahh-uhh!" the paramedic cried out in agony and his eyes snapped open.

"I'm sorry!" Pam apologized, teetering on the brink of tears again. "I didn't realize—your shoulders must be so sore!"

The fireman stared down at his freed arms. "No-o..." he lied, looking positively delighted. "No...It's all right...Let's get outta here!" he suggested and attempted to rise. His burning eyes crossed and he fell back onto the bed.

Pam shook the motionless man's shoulder. "John? Jo-ohn?"

Gage groaned and gradually came around. The paramedic rolled slowly over onto his stomach and then hung his reeling head over the side of the bed. "Ah-ah...I don't feel so good."

The girl gave the fireman a few sympathetic pats on the back. "C'mon! I'll help you," she encouraged. Pam draped the fireman's handcuffed wrists over her head. "We'll take it slow," she promised and slowly began pulling him to his feet.

John just kept sagging to his knees.

"Stand up..."

"I can't..." the fireman informed her. "My knees won't lock..."

"Then I'll just have to carry you."

"You'll have to…what?"

"Carry you," the girl repeated, pulling the collapsed fireman back to his feet. She sat the man on the edge of her bed, removed his handcuffed wrists from around her neck and then draped his weight across her shoulder. "You're light enough for me to carry," she assured her cargo.

"You're crazy!" the 150 pound paramedic assured the 110 pound girl right back.

"No-o," Ms. Court calmly corrected. "I'm tough!" The woman slowly straightened up and started carting the amazed man out to her car.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Pamela opened her car's passenger door, shoved the seat forward, and carefully set her burden down. "You'll be able to lie down back here."

John collapsed onto the car's cramped back seat.

Pam noticed the paramedic's already pale complexion appeared even paler. "You okay?"

Gage nodded. "Let's get outta here!"

His get-away driver slid in behind the wheel and thumbed the ignition. The girl got the vehicle turned around. Then she drove off, in a cloud of dust, down the dirt road that led back to the Pacific Coast Highway.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

About a mile down the dirt road, that passed for Dragoon Drive, Pam spotted another cloud of dust—approaching. "Uh-oh!" she exclaimed. "We've got company!"

John tried to sit up again, but he still couldn't clear the cobwebs out of his head. He fell back onto the seat.

"It's my cousin Phillip!" Pamela announced, recognizing her relative's vehicle.

The paramedic got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Is your cousin...blond?"

"Yes!" Pam answered and then swerved as Phillip tried to run her off the road.

Gage braced himself and groaned. "O-oh no-o."

The girl jerked frantically on the wheel—desperately trying to regain control on the soft, dirt road. "I got by!" she announced, sounding more than a little surprised.

The car in her rear-view mirror skidded to a stop and started turning around.

Pam floored the gas pedal and kicked up more dust than ever.

"They'll try...to shoot out your tires," the tremendously disappointed paramedic dismally predicted.

"They'll never see them in all this dust!" the car's pretty driver promised and peered into her mirror again. She frowned, seeing her cousin was gaining on her.

They reached the end of the dirt road. Pamela ran the stop sign and pulled right out in front of a semi tractor-trailer. "Sorry!" she told its driver.

The body in the back braced itself again. John lay there, listening to the sound of tires squealing on pavement.

"Rats!" Pam exclaimed. "They can see the tires now!"

The car in her rear-view mirror passed the truck and pulled right up behind them.

She spotted an arm—and a gun—sticking out of the window on its passenger's side! Her heart stopped—momentarily. She glanced at her car's speedometer and her heart skipped a few more beats. "A hundred and twelve!" the girl gulped. "If we have a blow-out at this speed, we're really going to—" her words trailed off as her steering wheel suddenly jerked sharply, to the right.

The sports car went careening sideways. Ms. Court clenched her teeth, gripped the wheel with all her might and tried—in vain—to pull out of the skid. The out-of-control automobile skidded off the highway, crashed through a wooden barrier, slid sideways through a small gully and came to rest—on its driver's side—at the foot of a low, sandy hill.

The seat-belted girl took an inventory of all her body parts. Except for being a bit shaken up and extremely frightened, she was okay. "—rack up!" she exclaimed, completing her sentence. Pam released her shoulder harness, turned around and peered over the back of her seat to check on the condition of her passenger. "John?" she called out. "Jo-ohn!"

The crumpled body in her back seat didn't move, but the paramedic's dry eyes opened—for an instant—and he gave her a wink.

Pam was about to ask what he was up to, when she heard movement outside the vehicle. She turned her head back around and saw her cousin Phillip crouched in front of her windshield—with a gun pointed right at her face!

"Out of the car, Cuz'!" Langley ordered.

The driver's door was buried in the dirt. Pam pointed to her blocked exit and then shrugged.

Phillip—and the flunkie with him—rocked the wreck back onto its wheels. The goons spotted the motionless body in the back seat, and their mouths dropped open.

"**He**'s supposed to be DEAD!" Langley screamed, his voice filled with an equal mixture of anger and amazement.

Lenny studied the car's lifeless backseat passenger for a few seconds and then speculated, "Maybe he **is**..."

"Check him out!" Phillip ordered.

Not desiring to be 'kidnapped' a third time, the paramedic held his breath and continued to lie perfectly still.

Lenny picked up the paramedic's handcuffed right wrist and tried to find a pulse—he couldn't. He watched the fireman's chest for any sign of movement—there wasn't any. "He ain't breathin'."

Pamela had everything she could do to keep from gasping.

Langley treated his fellow goon's diagnosis with a great deal of skepticism. He motioned for Morrow to watch the girl. Then he went over and slammed the butt of his gun into the dead guy's ribcage.

John jerked and groaned—involuntarily.

The blond thug looked smug. "Take him along, too!"

The brown-haired flunky frowned. "Why? Let's just kill him right here!"

"We'll use him to deal with the cops," Langley turned to his cousin and gave her his sick grin. "And you to deal with your father!"

Lenny latched onto the paramedic's handcuffed wrists and reluctantly pulled him from the car.

Gage was still pretending to be unconscious.

So the thug was forced to throw him over his shoulder and carry him.

Phillip pulled Pamela out the passenger's door of her car and then shoved her over to—and into—the back of his car.

Lenny dropped the paramedic on her lap, and they drove off.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Just after dark…

Rockford's silver Firebird and Becker's unmarked cop car pulled into the driveway of Nick Gardino's home.

An ambulance pulled in right behind them.

The homeowner and his bodyguards came hurrying out of the house and started heading for the black BMW that was parked in the middle of the drive.

The two detectives ran over to the car and stopped the group from climbing into it.

"What's goin' on?" Dennis demanded and flashed the mobster's two mean looking muscle men his badge.

The goons reluctantly backed off.

Gardino blinked his watering eyes. "It's Pamela! That maniac is after my daughter! Langley 'convinced' our housekeeper to tell him where she is! She's supposed to be on a plane to London," he paused, "but she didn't want to be that far away from her mother..."

"How long ago did this happen?" Becker wondered.

"How do we get to the cottage?" Rockford urgently inquired—at the same time.

"I'm not sure. We just found her out ba—"

"—How do we get to the cottage?" Jim repeated, the tone of urgency increasing in his voice.

Gardino swallowed hard and glanced at his watch. "It's no use. He probably has her by now!"

"We think the kidnapped fireman may be there," the police sergeant explained.

"1868 North Dragoon Drive, Castle Rock Beach," Pamela's father numbly replied.

Becker went over to his unmarked car and grabbed his radio. The detective ordered a police helicopter and informed headquarters of the assault—and possible kidnapping. He replaced the radio and turned to Rockford. "You coming to the cottage?"

His frowning friend gasped in frustration. "I'm sick of always being a step behind! I have an idea on how to get a step ahead!"

"Where're you going?" Dennis wondered as Rockford started heading for his car.

"Fishing!" Jim shouted back over his shoulder. "I have a hunch they might be biting—over on Shelby Street!"

'Shelby Street is the site of our surveillance stake-out...' the sergeant realized. Becker heaved a frustrated sigh himself. The police detective wanted to follow the private detective—who was following another one of his hunches. After all, Rockford was on a roll. However, he'd already committed himself—and his forces—to the cottage lead.

Gardino stepped up to the silver Firebird. "Get my daughter back—unharmed—and I'll be _extremely_ grateful..."

Rockford shot the distraught man a sympathetic glance. "I honestly didn't know anything about Langley's plans—or I would've stopped him." He slid behind the wheel of his car and slammed its door shut. "For **Pamela's** sake..." he specified and promptly drove off.

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Seventeen**

Fifteen minutes later, over on Shelby Street…

Rockford pulled up and parked behind an unmarked police car. He got out, walked over to the driver's side window and tapped on the glass.

The plainclothesman seated inside reluctantly wound his window down. "What are **you** doing here, Rockford?"

Rockford ignored the man's attitude—and his question. "Ruger and Hanley alone?"

The annoyed officer nodded.

"Be ready to follow me," Jim told him, and started off across the street towards an apartment building.

"Rockford!" the perturbed policeman called after the private eye. "What are you up to?"

Rockford disappeared into the building they'd been surveillancing.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Jim checked the complex's mailboxes and discovered that Markus Hanley occupied Apartment **12**.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Moments later…

Rockford was standing in a dimly-lit hallway, knocking on Hanley's door.

"Who is it?" someone cautiously called out.

"James Rockford!" Jim answered. "Gardino sent me..."

The door opened a crack.

Rockford caught the glint of a gun's barrel.

Hanley eyed him—and the deserted hallway—up and down. Then he stashed his weapon back in his belt and reluctantly opened the portal.

Rockford entered the apartment. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in surprise.

Andrew Ruger was nowhere to be seen, but Brent Hobbson and Wes' Atkins were standing in Hanley's living room, looking larger than life. 'Alone, huh...'

Hanley crossed his arms and gave his uninvited guest an icy glare. "What do you want, Rockford?"

Jim glanced around the roomful of goons. "Phillip Langley is going to kidnap—or has already kidnapped—Gardino's daughter."

Mark grinned and grunted skeptically. "The girl isn't even in LA!"

"I just spoke with her this morning," Rockford informed him. "In person."

Hanley's grin vanished.

"Smartest move that imbecile's made yet!" Hobbson declared.

Atkins grinned and nodded.

Jim cleared his throat and continued. "Gardino's offering a sizable reward to get her back—unharmed."

The thugs seemed both unimpressed and uninterested.

Rockford cleared his throat again. "I, uh, think I know where he's taking her..."

"Good! Then why don't you just run along and rescue her!" his suddenly antsy host suggested. Hanley started ushering Gardino's messenger towards the door.

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me where your other meeting place is?" the private eye pondered and applied his brakes. "You know, the other apartment like the one on Boroughs Street?"

"If there was such a place," Atkins replied, "why would we wanna tell you where it is?"

"I think Langley's taking the girl there," Jim told him.

The goons looked thoughtful.

"He probably is," Atkins had to agree.

"And the fireman," Rockford added.

The three thugs reacted like they'd just gotten zapped with 4,000 volts, but then they relaxed.

Jim's heart sank. 'He must be dead,' he silently—and sadly—realized. Then again…maybe not.

Only two of the goons had relaxed.

His already antsy host remained extremely uptight.

"What fireman?" Hobbson innocently inquired.

Rockford did some fast assuming—and positive thinking. "The fireman you guys left at Pamela's cottage. Surely you must know the one I'm referring to. I mean, you didn't kidnap _more_ than one. Did you?"

Mark pulled the gun from his belt. "Why don't you step into the bedroom for a minute," he told more than asked Rockford.

Jim glanced down at the gun barrel leveled at his midsection and made his way over to the requested room. "Why don't I," he agreed.

Hanley relieved their uninvited visitor of his weapon. Then he pushed the P.I. into the room and pulled the door shut.

The three thugs held a whispered conference.

"He's bluffing!" Hobbson quickly determined. "You and Andy WASTED that fireman!"

Atkins nodded. "He's bluffing!"

Hanley didn't look as certain. He gazed down at his watch for a few moments, performed some rapid mental calculations and suddenly looked even more uncertain.

His two associates glanced nervously at each other and then turned back to glare at their antsy buddy.

"You **did** WASTE HIM?" Atkins practically shouted.

"Not exactly," Mark timidly told them.

"What's **that** supposed to mean?" Hobbson did shout.

"We left him cuffed to the bed," Hanley explained. "He was supposed to WASTE himself! He should've been dead by now! I've never seen such a tough little guy!"

His associates didn't say anything. They were much too angry and upset to speak.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Meanwhile, in the apartment's bedroom…

Rockford had his ear pressed up against the door, listening to some frantic whispering. He heard footsteps approaching. So he stepped back and then stood there, looking nonchalant.

Mark opened the door and waved him out of the room—at gunpoint. "We've decided to rescue Pamela after all."

Jim had everything he could do to keep from grinning. That meant there was a slight chance the fireman might still be alive! "Good. Goo-ood. I was sort a' hoping you might."

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

In the dark alley behind Hanley's apartment building...

Gardino's goons ushered Rockford into a car, and they drove off into the night.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Over in the bedroom of Pamela's cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

Sergeant Dennis Becker jiggled the sawed in two board at the head of the bed and stared down at the ropes on the corner posts at its foot. "He was here, alright," he told the uniformed officer standing at his side. He pointed to the bloody bedspread. "And he's hurt. Maybe the girl took him to a hospital?"

The patrolman nodded thoughtfully.

Another uniformed officer came barging into the room. "Sarge, they found the girl's car—abandoned on the Pacific Coast Highway—about three miles south of here!"

The Sarge grimaced. "Then again," he glumly began, his voice filled with sarcasm, "maybe Langley has him—and the girl—handcuffed to some bedpost somewhere! I can just see us, following this trail of bloody bedspreads—clear across the county! Leaving little notes pinned to the pillows…The fireman slept here! The fireman slept here!"

The two uniforms exchanged grim glances.

Becker heaved a heavy sigh and stared sadly down at the bloody bedspread. "Jim's right! We stay a step behind _this_ time...we're gonna find that fireman's _dead body_ in the next bed!"

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Somewhere on the outskirts of downtown LA…

Phillip's car pulled up and parked in front of a ritzy looking apartment complex.

Pamela was sitting quietly in the back seat, with John's head resting on her lap.

Langley exited the vehicle and flung the girl's door open. "Everybody out!"

His cousin looked up. "Give me a hand..."

"He can manage! Get out of the car!"

"He's too weak!" Pam protested. "Help me..."

Phillip latched onto the fireman's cuffed wrists and jerked him out of the car.

The paramedic crumpled into a motionless heap on the sidewalk.

Langley glanced nervously around. Then he picked the lifeless body up and stashed it back into the car. Phillip placed the tip of his gun's barrel against the faker's left temple and threatened—er, promised, "If you don't get up and walk into that building, I'm gonna blow your brains out!"

The prisoner showed no sign whatsoever that he had heard the threat—er, promise.

Phillip grabbed the paramedic's shirt collar and shook him. "You hear me?"

The rattled fireman's head flopped forward and he remained totally unresponsive.

"Even if he could hear you," his cousin began, "he can't walk! He's too weak!"

Langley remained skeptical. "I suppose he _flew_ into your car!"

"No," his cousin corrected. "I carried him!"

Phillip eyed his petite relative up and down. "You're crazy!"

"No-o," the girl quickly came back. "I'm tough!"

Lenny let out an impatient gasp and stepped up behind Langley. "We gonna stand out here all night, or what?"

Phillip's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Carry him inside!"

Morrow's mouth dropped open. "You're the one who's crazy! If anyone saw me, they'd call the cops—for sure!"

"Both of you carry him! We'll say he's drunk!" Langley decided. He removed his suit coat and hung it over the paramedic's handcuffed wrists.

Pam and Lenny each draped an arm around their necks and started dragging Gage toward the building's main entrance.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Inside the apartment complex…

No one saw them get on the elevator, and no one saw them get off of it on the seventh floor, either.

However, as they stood in the hallway in front of Apartment G6, waiting for Phillip to unlock the door, a woman strolled past with her poodle and gave them—and their collapsed cargo—a suspicious stare.

"Our friend, here, just had a little too much to drink," Langley explained. "We had to bring him home. He couldn't drive…in his condition."

The woman hurried off down the hall and disappeared into her apartment.

Phillip glanced anxiously around. Then he opened the apartment's door and pulled the other three inside.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Pam and Lenny dragged John into another back bedroom—where he was shoved down onto another mattress.

The girl lifted the fireman's limp legs up onto the bed with the rest of his motionless body and then turned to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" Langley wondered, latching onto the little lady's left wrist.

"To get him some water," she replied.

"Forget it! He's fine just the way he is!" Phillip determined and handed the girl over to Morrow. "Tie her up!"

"He's going to die if he doesn't get some wa—"

"—Pamela...shut up!" Phillip cut in, sounding very bored. "And gag her!"

Lenny nodded and started dragging the girl from the room.

"No-o!" Pam protested. "I want to stay with him!"

The creep clutching her wrists completely ignored her.

Not having the key to the handcuffs in his possession, Langley cut some drape cords and tied their unconscious prisoner's manacled wrists to the bed's headboard. The paramedic's ankles were quickly secured to the corner posts of its footboard.

Phillip stepped up to the head of the bed and gave the fireman's impassive face a fourth backhanded blow.

The sadist then exhaled a satisfied sigh...and strolled calmly back into the living room.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Pamela's cousin picked a phone up from the coffee table, punched in some numbers and dropped back onto the sofa. He propped his feet up on the table and then plastered a sick grin upon his face. "Uncle Nick? Remember me? Your nephew—the **carpet**?"

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Eighteen**

Outside the ritzy apartment complex…

Hanley pulled up and parked behind a black, four-door, '77 Lincoln Continental, with a **MAFIA STAFF CAR** back bumper sticker.

"That's Phillip's car!" Mark announced. "C'mon! Let's go!" the gunman urged.

"Hold it!" Rockford advised, in an attempt to stall for time. "You can't just go barging in there! Langley probably knows you finked on him to Carter! He's not likely to just hand him over to you!"

"So-o?" Hanley impatiently inquired.

"So-o, there's liable to be shooting! The girl could get hurt—or _killed_!" Jim paused, looking shrewd. "Now, I know you're not interested in Gardino's sizable reward, but how would you like his sizable punishment? He'd never forgive you if you hurt his daughter! Why he might even go so far as to have you _killed_!"

There was a long silence as the three men mulled over Rockford's remarks.

"Then how do _you_ suggest we handle this?" Hanley finally asked the know-it-all.

"Let me get the girl out," the private investigator suggested. "Then you guys can go in for what you're after."

Mark grunted skeptically. "What makes you think you can get her out without getting her hurt—or _killed_?"

"Because I won't have a gun!"

The three killers in the car with him cracked up.

"I have a plan!" Rockford continued, when the laughter finally died down.

"Okay, _Superman_," Mark said. "Let's hear it!"

Speaking of hearing things…

Jim strained his ears, hoping to hear the sound of sirens wailing—police sirens. 'Anytime now, Dennis...' he silently pleaded.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Becker drove up to the stakeout on Shelby Street and parked behind his friend's silver Firebird. He got out and stepped over to another unmarked police car. "He's still in there?"

The car's driver nodded.

The Sergeant glanced at his watch and frowned. "I don't like it. C'mon! We better check it out!"

The two cops in the car exited.

The three of them headed off across the street and into the structure being staked out.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Less than five minutes later, Becker and his men returned to the street.

"Since when," Dennis angrily demanded, "do you only stakeout **half** of a building?"

The two car cops cringed and stared down at their shoes.

Becker gave the pair a disgusted glare. "He probably would have led us right to the hostages!"

His men continued to avoid his narrowed eyes.

Dennis gave them both a contemptuous grunt and stood there...thinking. 'My fishing friend is using _himself_ as bait and there's no one around to reel him in!'

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Inside the ritzy apartment complex…

Rockford and the three thugs stood at the end of a long hallway on the seventh floor.

Jim was still straining his ears, listening—er, praying for the sound of approaching sirens. 'Where is LA's finest?' he wondered for the umpteenth time. 'A few more minutes and I'm gonna really have to go through with this!' He shuddered at the thought of having to face Phillip and his friend **un**armed.

"What are you waiting for?" Mark impatiently demanded. "Quit stalling and go get her!" he ordered and shoved the barrel of his gun into Rockford's back.

Jim grimaced and swallowed hard. "Remember," he advised, glancing back over his shoulder, "don't come **in** 'til the girl's **out**!"

The goons nodded

_Superman_ drew a deep breath and reluctantly headed off down the hall. 'Oh brother!' he told himself. 'Are you gonna have to do some fast talking!'

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Jim reached apartment **G6** and put his ear up against its portal. He smiled, hearing music—loud music—playing.

He pulled out his little locksmith's kit and went to work on the door.

The locking mechanism moved with a loud metallic 'cli-ick'...which went undetected.

'The music must've drowned out the sound,' Rockford realized—and sighed in relief. He grasped the doorknob and began turning it very s l o w l y. 'Do you realize,' he asked himself, 'that your life depends on whether or not they dead-bolted or chained this door?'

The door 'cli-icked' open.

Jim froze, but again the music saved him from being discovered. He exhaled a silent sigh of relief and then continued to ease the door open ever so s l o w l y.

"I'm gonna let him sweat a little first!" he heard someone say. "Give him a taste of his own medicine!"

'Must be Langley,' Rockford reasoned.

"Why can't we just get the money and split?" Morrow inquired.

"Because I'm not just doing this for the money!" Langley angrily explained. "I'm getting a great deal of personal satisfaction out of this!"

Morrow went over to the radio and started dial surfing.

"Turn that thing down and go check on the fireman!" Phillip ordered.

Rockford saw Lenny leave the room. He threw the door open, raced in and tackled Langley around the waist.

They tumbled to the floor.

Jim spun the thug around and slammed him in the jaw.

Phillip went limp.

Rockford frisked him and pulled the gun from his belt. "Ou-ouch!" he whispered with a grimace and shook his smarting right hand.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

In the apartment's bedroom…

John had untied the cord holding his handcuffs to the headboard. Next, he'd freed his bound ankles.

Now, he was lying there on the bed with his right leg bent at the knee. He heard someone enter the room.

Lenny stepped up to the bed. He saw the prisoner's bent leg, but didn't realize he was looking at a loaded weapon.

Gage cracked his eyes open just a slit and saw someone's stomach. He clenched his teeth and then planted his right foot solidly into the middle of that tummy.

John heard an "Oo-oof!" sound and watched the doubled up flunky go flying back into the bedroom closet's sliding door.

The fireman sprang from the bed, grabbed a heavy glass ashtray from the nightstand—with both hands—and whacked the goon on the top of the head with it.

The criminal collapsed.

The paramedic stared down at the unconscious creep for a moment—and then proceeded to pass out, himself.

Lenny's assailant slumped to the carpeted floor and was still.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Rockford pressed himself up against the wall beside the bedroom doorway. He stayed there with Langley's gun raised above his head, waiting to knock out the other thug.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Back in the bedroom…

Gage groaned and gradually came around.

John struggled onto his cuffed hands and knees. Then he picked the heavy glass ashtray back up and started hobbling toward the doorway to the living room.

The paramedic reached the open portal, braced himself against the door's frame and began picking himself up off the floor.

Somehow, he made it to his feet. He stood there, swaying slightly, using the wall for support—and holding the ashtray in his raised hands.

Gage had just thought of a way to get Pamela's cousin to come back into the bedroom, when his lightheadedness became a major problem. He tried shaking his reeling head, but it refused to clear. The fireman managed to stagger forward a step or two—before collapsing.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Somebody finally exited the bedroom.

Rockford began to bring his raised gun butt down, but then he spotted that somebody's handcuffed wrists, and stopped.

The 'somebody' sagged to his knees and went sprawling face first onto the carpeted floor of the living room, anyway.

Rockford peeked into the bedroom. His brows arched.

The other goon had already been rendered unconscious.

Jim crossed over to the passed out paramedic and stooped down beside him. "You okay?" he anxiously inquired and carefully rolled the now groaning guy onto his back.

The moaning fireman caught the question. He forced his sore eyes open and tried focusing them on the concerned person leaning over him. John was tremendously relieved to see that this gunman's hair was a dark brown. The room gradually stopped spinning. "Who…are you?"

"James Rockford," the gentleman told him with a warm smile.

'The Private Investigator.' Gage managed a brief smile, but then he rolled onto his right side and began moaning and groaning again. "Ah-ah…I don't feel so good."

Rockford gave the paramedic's left shoulder a few sympathetic pats.

The fireman stiffened suddenly and tried to sit up. "Pa-am?"

"Take it easy!" Jim advised and helped the ghostly pale paramedic into a sitting position.

Gage sat there, swaying slightly. He glanced around the apartment and spotted Pamela—gagged—and tied to a chair in the kitchen. He gave his dizzy head a few shakes and then started crawling over to her, inching along the floor with his handcuffed wrists.

The detective got to his feet and stepped back up to the apartment's open portal. He closed, locked, bolted _and_ chained the door. Then he flicked the radio off and crossed quickly over to the phone on the coffee table, to dial **911**. "Yes, operator. This is James Rockford…" His smile reappeared. "The kidnapped paramedic is _alive_! And, if you want to keep him that way, send the police to 2183 West Melstrand, Apartment **G6**! And tell them to hurry!" He replaced the phone and disappeared into the bedroom.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John finally got the girl's wrists untied.

Pamela pulled her bound arms free and untied the gag. "Thanks, John!" she gasped and went to work freeing her feet.

"Just...returning…the favor," John told her and dropped back onto the floor. He had no choice. He either lay down, or he fell down.

Pamela gave her rescuer a concerned once over. Then she took her bonds and stepped over to her unconscious cousin.

Jim came out of the bedroom. "Need a hand?"

Pam shook her pretty head. "I can manage! I'm going to get a _great deal of personal satisfaction_ out of this!" she added, quoting her misguided cousin.

Rockford couldn't help but grin. He crouched beside the floored fireman and his countenance sobered, considerably. "Do you think you could travel, if we had to?"

The paramedic looked confused. "Why can't we just…stay here…and wait for the police?"

The detective looked somewhat uneasy. "Because there are three goons—just down the hall—who are gonna come busting in here, any second now…" he winced, "…to _kill_ you."

John looked shocked and tried to sit up. "Wha—?" The fireman's wide eyes crossed and he fell back onto the kitchen's tile floor. He came to almost immediately and tried to sit up again, but Mr. Rockford held him down. "How do you know…they want to _kill_ me?" he wondered. "How did they even…_find_ me?"

Jim looked even more uneasy and avoided his confused questioner's gaze. "Here…" He handed John the gun he had just taken from Morrow.

The fireman made a face and dropped the weapon.

Rockford's eyebrows shot up again. "What's the matter?"

"I hate guns!"

"You don't have to shoot anybody! Just put _the fear of God_ in them!" the detective advised, and placed the revolver back in the paramedic's right palm.

The fireman made another face and lay there, holding onto the weapon's trigger guard with two fingers. "I can't fire this thing! I _won't_ fire this thing!"

Jim rolled his eyes. "I don't believe you! There are three thugs out there who are going to _kill_ you...DEAD!"

Gage gazed distastefully up at the gun. "I don't care! I **won't** fire this thing!"

Rockford wrapped the principled paramedic's fingers around the gun's butt. "Then just point it in their general direction! Maybe you can bluff them!" 'This guy's a few eggs shy of a carton!' the detective determined and started to leave.

John grabbed his ankle. "Where are you going?"

Jim exhaled an impatient sigh. "To prepare for an invasion!"

"Let's leave!" the paramedic suggested. "They can't _kill_ us…if we ain't here!"

The detective stared down at the fireman on the floor, looking dumbfounded. "We're on the **seventh** floor! What?…You gonna flip out your communicator and have Scotty beam us up?"

Gage completely ignored the investigator's sarcasm and calmly put forth a more rational proposal. "There's got to be a ledge! We can use the ledge…to get to another apartment!"

Rockford's jaw dropped again. He stared down at the paramedic looking completely dumbstruck. "You can't even sit up without passing out!" he exclaimed when he got his ability to speak back. "And you want to crawl out on ledge on the **seventh** floor? You're a basket case! I'd rather face the guns!"

"Suit yourself," the paramedic said and started crawling off. "Hide!" he told Pam as he passed her. "They won't bother you!"

"I'm going with!" the girl announced and followed the fireman on all fours into the bedroom.

John gave the trussed up unconscious creep that he had cold-cocked a quick exam. Then he turned his attention to his shadow. "Under the bed will be fine!" he told the girl, sounding very final.

Pam frowned but then brightened. "I have to go with you—or they'll use me to get to you!"

The fireman looked thoughtful and frowned as well. "You're right!"

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Ms. Court stepped back up to the private investigator—turned furniture mover. The girl flashed the busy fellow her most persuasive smile. "You will help us, won't you, Mr. Rockford? Plea-ease?"

Jim's shoulders sagged in surrender. The private eye exhaled another exasperated sigh and started heading for the bedroom. "I've been risking my neck for a basket case!" he announced to no one in particular. The perturbed detective gave the now grinning girl an annoyed glare. "_Two_ basket cases!" he corrected.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

By the time he and Pam reached the opening to the ledge, John was already heading down it toward the next door apartment.

The paramedic glanced back over his shoulder and saw their heads sticking out of the window. "C'mon!" he urged. "It's wider than it looks!"

Rockford watched with wide eyes as Ms. Court crawled cautiously out onto the narrow ledge and began inching her way along it.

John glanced back again and saw the girl looking down at the street and sidewalk seven floors below. "**Don't** look down!" the fireman strongly advised. "I do this all the time…and—believe me—it's…a lot better…if you _don't_ look down!"

Jim looked down. He was just about to tell Gage and the girl to forget it—that he wasn't going out on that ridiculously narrow ledge—when he heard a 'thud' upon the apartment's door. He managed another gasp of complete and utter exasperation and reluctantly climbed out onto the ledge. "Anytime now, Dennis!" he grumbled disgustedly beneath his breath. "Anytime no-ow!"

**TBC**


	19. Chapter 19

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Nineteen**

The handcuffed ledge crawler pried up on the first window he came across—locked. The second and third windows he tried to raise were also secured.

The fourth window had an air-conditioning unit in it. He reached out with his handcuffed wrists and tugged up on the window—it gave! He exhaled a sigh of relief and raised it as high as it would go.

"Here's hoping nobody's home!" he mumbled to himself, as he shoved the cooling appliance off of the window's sill. The heavy unit made an awful racket when it hit the floor, but nobody came to investigate the noise. So Gage heaved another sigh of relief and dropped into the room.

John helped Pamela into the apartment. Then he staggered over to a bed and collapsed—face first—upon it. "Ah-uh...I don't feel so good."

Pam flicked a lamp on and then assisted Jim in from the ledge.

Rockford gave the girl a look of undying gratitude and then heaved a huge sigh of relief, himself. "Well...That wasn't so bad!" he lied. The detective stared out at the ledge for a few moments and shuddered. Then he took Pamela by the elbow and began ushering her away from the open window. "C'mon! Let's get out of here!"

They pulled the moaning paramedic back up onto his feet and then did their best to keep him there.

"Damn!" the swaying fireman suddenly exclaimed.

"You okay?" Pam anxiously inquired.

"Yeah..." John assured her. "I just realized something, is all." He paused. "If those guys get away, they're gonna to try to _kill_ me again! I can't let them get away!" The determined sounding paramedic pulled his arms free of their grasps and started staggering toward the bedroom door.

Pamela turned to Rockford and gave him a pleading, pitiful look.

Again, the investigator's shoulders sagged in surrender. "Stay here!" he ordered.

The girl nodded.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Jim caught up to John in the living room. "Let's let the police handle them, okay?"

The fireman fell against the door to the hall. He paused there, trying to clear his reeling head. "Mr. Rockford—"

"—Ji-im," Mr. Rockford interrupted.

"Ji-im, what would you do…if you were me?"

The question caused Jim's frown to turn upside-down. "I'd try to stop them from getting away," he truthfully told him.

The paramedic unlocked the door and peered out into the hallway. He didn't see anyone. He pulled the gun from his belt, stepped out of the apartment and crept off down the hall—using the wall for support.

Rockford drew his confiscated weapon and followed him.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

The pair reached the open door to **G6** and stood there, listening to the irritated voices of three men.

"Where are they?" Hobbson demanded.

"I don't get it!" Atkins confessed. "We were watching the door the entire time!"

"They _gotta_ be in here!" Hanley angrily exclaimed.

John stepped into the apartment and aimed his weapon at the backs of the three befuddled flunkies. "Freeze!" he ordered, sounding very mean. "Drop the guns…and put your hands above your heads!"

The flabbergasted trio—reluctantly—obeyed.

"Get their guns," the paramedic told his companion.

Rockford gave the transformed fireman a strange stare, but then obediently stepped over and stooped down to retrieve the requested firearms.

"Now, go hide them," the fireman further requested.

Jim pulled _his_ gun from Hanley's belt and turned to shoot the basket case a look of confusion. "_Hide_ them?"

Gage nodded and sank to his knees. The room stopped spinning.

It went against Jim's better judgment to leave John alone. However, he recalled something he'd once read: 'Never argue with a crazy person. People watching might not be able to tell the difference.' The detective decided to humor the crazy person. He reluctantly left the apartment to 'hide' the guns.

The distant sound of wailing sirens came drifting through the open window.

Gage untensed a little.

Right about then, the living room started spinning again.

John bowed his whoozy head. It didn't help. In fact, the room spun even faster. "Uh-oh..." he mumbled beneath his breath as he went sprawling—face first—onto the apartment's carpeted floor…again! The gun flew from his handcuffed hands and landed at Hanley's feet.

Mark stooped down and snatched it up—just as Rockford stepped through the doorway. "Drop it!"

Jim took in the situation. His shoulders sagged.

"C'mon! Toss it over here!" Hanley told him.

Rockford frowned and flung his weapon at Mark's feet.

Seeing as how the sirens were getting louder and louder by the second, the two flunkies without guns went tearing out of the apartment.

The remaining thug picked up Jim's gun and stuck John's in his belt.

The paramedic groaned and started to come around.

Mark took careful aim at the fireman's tossing head.

Jim saw Hanley's finger tightening on the trigger and dove for the goon's gun arm.

Mark immediately redirected his aim and fired at Rockford.

The moving target grabbed his own left wrist and changed course, to take cover behind the couch.

The combination of the gunshot and the screaming sirens roused the moaning paramedic completely. Gage opened his eyes and got slowly back onto his hands and knees. He saw Hanley pointing his gun at Jim and started rising to his feet. "C'mon!" he told the thug. "Give me the gun!"

Hanley moved his aim back over to cover him. "You're DEAD, fireman!" he declared and started squeezing the trigger.

The fireman just smiled and stood there, swaying. Then he took a few staggering steps toward his would be executioner. "Go ahead!" he dared, sounding somewhat amused. " _Shoot_ me!"

Rockford's eyes widened and his brows shot up. 'A basket case!'

The goon gave Gage a strange stare. Hanley seemed to be in a state of shock over the fireman's reckless abandon.

John reached out and snatched the weapon from Mark's hand.

Jim blinked and swallowed hard.

The thug gazed at the crusty paramedic and declared—almost in awe, "You're either the nutsiest…or the gutsiest little guy...I've ever come across!"

"Neither!" the fireman assured him, looking rather smug. " I took all the bullets out!" he confessed, and waved the empty weapon recklessly through the air.

"_Both_!" Rockford exclaimed, scrambling to his feet and snatching his gun from him. "I hate to have to be the one to tell you this," he said and pointed the weapon at Hanley, "but this is _my_ gun!" He held up his bleeding wrist. "And it's _very_ loaded!"

The paramedic's smug look was replaced by one of shock...and then disbelief. "You sure?"

"Trust me," Jim told him. "This is the gun I took out of my cookie jar this morning."

John looked thoughtful. "Then you didn't hide—"

"—_My_ gun?" Jim finished for him and shook his head no. "And he used your gun to get my gun!" He pointed to Mark's waist. "That's _your_ gun in his belt there!"

The fireman found the private eye's little revelation most shocking. He stared at his weapon, tucked in Hanley's belt, and suddenly felt rather faint.

Rockford caught the collapsing paramedic under one arm and gently lowered him to the floor.

Dennis came running into the room with his gun drawn. He stared at Hanley, then at Langley—tied and gagged—then at his friend...the fisherman. "Looks like you caught your limit!" He turned his gaze to the motionless fireman lying at their feet. "He been hit?"

Jim looked thoughtful. Then he smiled and nodded.

Becker frowned and dropped down beside the paramedic's crumpled body.

"I hit him!" Rockford confessed—unashamedly.

Dennis looked shocked...and then confused.

The private detective's eyes sparkled with amusement. "With a big dose of cold...harsh..._reality_!" Jim's amused look vanished and he gave Dennis an annoyed glare. "Where the heck have you been?" he demanded and finally did hide _his_ gun.

The paramedic groaned and saved Becker from having to answer.

Gage rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. "Who are you?" he inquired, staring up at the new arrival—and his gun.

"Sergeant Becker," Dennis told him, "LAPD."

The paramedic propped himself up on his right elbow. "How's Mrs. Gereau?"

"Who?" Becker wondered, looking at a loss.

"My landlady."

"O-oh...yeah. She's fine. She's okay."

John smiled and exhaled a long sigh of relief.

Rockford watched an officer handcuff Hanley and escort him from the apartment. "Did you round up the other two?"

Dennis nodded. "They didn't even fire a shot!"

The private eye and the paramedic glanced knowingly at each other.

Gage started struggling to his feet.

The police sergeant gripped the paramedic's shoulders and held him down. "Why don't you just stay put. The ambulance will be here any moment now to take you to the hospi—"

"—No way!" the fireman exclaimed, pulling free and rising. "I don't need a hospital! I'm just a little weak...and dizzy," he added, and began swaying back and forth.

Becker and Rockford helped the 'weak and dizzy' gentleman over to the sofa and sat him down.

Two ambulance attendants wheeled a stretcher into the apartment.

"Who's this for?" one of them asked Becker.

"If you're looking for a candidate," John told them, "there's a guy in the bedroom with a nasty bump on his head." He glanced up at the police officer. "I didn't want to hit him with the ashtray! Honest! I wanted to use my fists...but I just didn't have the strength."

Becker gave the apologizing paramedic a strange stare and then turned to Rockford for an explanation.

Jim pointed to his temple and twirled his finger.

Dennis nodded thoughtfully.

"Here, let me wrap this up for you**," **the paramedic offered, latching onto Rockford's bleeding wrist and pulling him down onto the cushion beside him. He slid the detective's coat off, unbuttoned his shirt cuff and ripped the bloody sleeve open, exposing the bullet wound. "Just missed the artery!" he solemnly said.

"It's just a scratch!" Jim assured him.

Gage tore the shirt's entire left sleeve off and started bandaging the wound with it. "Still, I'd have a doctor look at this, if I were you**…**" He was having an extremely difficult time with his handcuffed wrists. He gasped in exasperation and held the manacles up to Becker. "Can you get these things off?"

Dennis examined the handcuffs. "Not without a hacksaw," he regrettably informed the fireman, "or the key."

Gage grimaced.

"I'll get them off for you," the private eye promised.

John looked delighted.

"On the way to the hospital," Rockford added, conditionally.

The fireman frowned and opened his mouth to protest.

"You may not need a whole hospital," Jim conceded. "Still, I'd have a doctor look at me, if I were you," he teased.

The fireman was forced to smile. "Here," he said, turning his task over to the police sergeant, "tie this for me—not too tight. I'm gonna go find Pamela," he announced and got up off the couch.

Dennis dropped onto the vacated cushion beside his bleeding buddy. "When you use yourself as bait," he shrewdly began, "I'm not surprised to see you get a little _nibbled_ on!"

Jim stared at his philosophical friend for a few moments and then the two of them swapped smiles.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John stepped out into the hall, and bumped into another police officer.

The startled cop drew his weapon. "**FREEZE!**" he warned.

The paramedic saw another loaded gun pointed directly at his face. His heart stopped and a wave of pure panic washed over him. He staggered back a step or two and then collapsed in the open doorway.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

The two detectives hurried over to the floored fireman.

Becker stared at the police officer's drawn gun in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"The prisoner was escaping!" the officer promptly replied, and then added, "I didn't touch him—I swear!"

His Sergeant sighed and rolled his eyes. "That's the _fireman_!"

The cop cringed and looked extremely apologetic. "Gosh…I'm sorry. I saw the handcuffs! I thought—" he stopped and holstered his weapon.

Pamela exited the apartment down the hall and came running up to the unconscious paramedic. "John!" The girl glanced up at Rockford. "You didn't let them hurt him?" she fearfully inquired.

Jim gave Ms. Court an 'O-oh brother!' look. "Of course not!" he assured her and pulled the stirring fireman back onto his unsteady feet. "See?"

John shook his whoozy head and aimed his dazed gaze at the jumpy cop. "The policemen in England don't carry guns," he told no one in particular. "They can't go around _scaring people_ _half to death_!"

"Sorry!" the officer said, sounding sincere.

Gage gave the sorry guy a forgiving glance and looked a little less grumpy.

"When they outlaw guns—only outlaws will have guns," Rockford reminded the pistol-hating paramedic. He grabbed Gage's right arm, the girl latched onto his left and they started escorting the swaying fireman towards the elevator.

"If you had hidden _your_ gun with the rest," John began, looking and sounding awfully smug, "you wouldn't have that hole in your wrist!"

They reached the elevator and Pamela pressed the DOWN button.

"You're right!" Rockford admitted. "The hole would have to be in my _head_!"

The girl giggled.

Becker and the officer exchanged grins.

The paramedic's smug look vanished as even he was forced to smile.

"By the way," Jim said, turning to Becker, "there are four guns _hidden_ in that fire hose case…" he added, pointing off down the hall. "You inspired me, John," the detective confessed. He and the fireman exchanged grins.

The two police officers retrieved the hidden weapons and then stepped up behind them again.

"Krieger," Becker told the uniformed officer, "I want you to drive these guys to the hospital and then stay with them and help them get through the reporters and cameramen."

"Right, Sarge!" Krieger acknowledged.

The elevator doors opened. Jim and Pamela went to get on it, but John didn't budge.

The private eye and the girl exchanged grim glances.

"You're not gonna pass out on us again, are you?" Rockford nervously inquired.

The stalled paramedic didn't reply.

They pulled him onto the elevator and then held the doors open for Becker and the officer. The doors closed and the elevator started down.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Ms. Court gave Gage a worried look. "What's the matter, John?"

"I _hate_ reporters and cameramen!" John quietly confessed.

"Why?" the woman wondered.

"Because they ask such ridiculous questions! And the flash from the cameras blinds me!"

Rockford was both amazed and amused. "You mean, you can dive off a two hundred and twenty foot cliff, climb out on a ledge on the seventh floor and walk up to a killer with a loaded gun—but you can't face a microphone and a loaded camera?"

Gage looked glummer than ever and nodded.

Jim was even more amazed—and amused.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Krieger escorted them out of the building and over to his squad car. The officer opened his back door and the three of them climbed in. Krieger slid in behind the wheel, flicked his lights and siren on and drove off.

Jim pulled out his little locksmith's kit and went to work.

"Well, Superman had his kryptonite…" Pamela reasoned. "The Fonze had his liver…And you have your camera phobia."

The paramedic wasn't too comforted by that knowledge.

Rockford paused in his handcuff lock picking. "The way I see it, those reporters and cameramen are a lot like those men who were trying to kill you. If you don't deal with them—they'll never leave you alone. Give them what they want—and they'll go away."

"I suppose..." John quietly conceded.

Jim went back to his lock picking. "It won't be so bad, you'll see. We'll think of somethi—" he heard a 'cli-ick'. The handcuff opened and fell from the fireman's left wrist.

"All right!" the paramedic exclaimed, looking and sounding positively delighted. "Thanks, Jim!" he said, and sat there, rubbing his raw—freed—wrist. "Thanks a lot!"

"You're welcome, John!" Rockford assured him with a warm smile and reached for the fireman's right wrist.

**TBC**


	20. Chapter 20

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Twenty**

Downtown LA…

The no longer kidnapped fireman was seated on an exam table in an emergency treatment room at Mason General Hospital.

A pretty, young nurse was standing at his side.

Dr. Toby Wilson completed his examination and glanced up from his patient's medical chart. "Considering what you've been through—you're in remarkably good shape."

John looked pleased and then curious. "Do you know a Dr. McKenzie?"

Wilson shook his head. "How do you feel?"

"Hungry and thirsty," the patient replied. "I am _famished_!"

"You are severely dehydrated, your electrolytes are off the charts and your hemoglobin is dangerously low. Do you know what that means?"

The fireman nodded. "There's an insufficient supply of oxygen going to my brain, so when I stand up—I pass out."

The physician shook his head. "That means I want to keep you here."

"No way!" Gage grabbed his shirt, jumped down from the exam table and started heading for the exit. "I'm going home! Thank you, Doctor**.** Good night and good—" he went to push the door open and ended up using it for support instead.

The doctor and nurse hurried over to the falling fireman. They grabbed John under the arms, helped him back up to the table and sat him down.

Wilson crossed his arms and stood there, looking very smug.

Gage grimaced. "But…I wanna go _ho-ome_."

"Lie back!" the doctor ordered. "We need to get some fluids into you."

The patient reluctantly laid back and pulled his legs up onto the table.

"Nurse, I want you to start two IV's. One D5W and electrolytes. One normal saline. Run them wide open."

"Yes, Dr.."

The pouting paramedic suddenly perked up. "How 'bout a compromise? Start the IV's _and_ send me home!"

The doctor drew a deep breath. "We'd have to send someone with you—"

"—Would a paramedic qualify?" his impatient patient interrupted, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Yes, of course, but—"

"—Great!" Gage interrupted again. "Then start the IV's and let me outta here!"

The doctor looked dubious. "Where are you going to find a paramedic that'd be willing to go with you?"

"No problem, Doc!" John laid back and closed his eyes. "No problem at all."

The doctor sighed, shook his head again and left the room.

Rockford passed the MD in the doorway.

"How's it going?" the private eye pondered as he strolled up to the pleased-looking person on the table. He pulled his bandaged left forearm out of a sling and picked John's handcuffed right wrist back up. There had to be sand or something in the tumblers of the right handcuff, because he was having a devil of a time getting it off.

The paramedic's eyes snapped open and he gave his visitor a concerned once over. "How's _your_ wrist?"

"Fine," Rockford winced as the nurse inserted an IV needle into the back of the fireman's left hand. "It's just a scratch."

John looked even more pleased. "I'm going home!" he announced and then winced as the nurse inserted another IV needle into the crux of his left elbow.

It was Jim's turn to look pleased. "When?"

"Tonight!" Gage told him.

The nurse finally finished taping all the needles and tubing in place.

Rockford looked more than a little skeptical. "They're going to let you walk outta here with all that _garbage_ in your veins?"

The nurse did not appreciate the private eye's opinion of her handiwork, and she shot him a sideways glance that said as much. "Not without proper medical supervision, of course," the girl assured him and then left.

"**Para**medical supervision?" Jim wondered with a wry grin as he finally caught on.

"Of course," the paramedic assured him, keeping a perfectly straight face, but then he broke into a rather wry grin himself.

Rockford heard a 'cli-ick' and looked down in time to see the other handcuff fall from the conniving fireman's right wrist. He caught it and dangled it triumphantly up for the now completely free person on the exam table to see.

"All right!" John re-exclaimed, sounding ecstatic. He stared up at his liberator, looking duly impressed. "How'd you ever learn to do that?"

"Desperation can drive you to do just about anything!" the private investigator informed him.

John looked thoughtful…and then curious. "You really keep your gun in a cookie jar?"

"I know it's a _crumb-y_ place to keep a gun," Rockford confessed, "but, yah see, I'm not all that fond of them, myself."

Gage was forced to grin.

Officer Krieger came into the room, pushing a wheelchair. "I have orders to drive you home—via headquarters," he told the fireman. Then he turned to the detective. "We've got your Firebird outside."

"Good," Rockford told him. "At least I can thank LA's finest for _something_!"

Gage grinned again. Then he sat up and took the IV units from a stand at the head of the table. "I'm all set," he said and plunked himself down into the chair. "Let's go get Doc McKenzie!"

The nurse stepped back into the treatment room. "You can't leave without the paramedic!" she reminded the gentleman in the wheelchair.

The fireman and the private eye exchanged knowing glances. The corners of their mouths turned up somewhat.

"Not to worry," Gage assured her. "I _promise_ I won't leave without him!" He and his chauffeur started heading for the exit.

Rockford looked thoughtful. "Hold it!" he told them.

They did.

Jim went over to a counter and grabbed a roll of gauze bandage. "We almost forgot something..."

John stared up at him, looking curious.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Outside of LA's Mason General Hospital…

John was being wheeled out to the waiting cop car.

Pamela was on his left side and Rockford was on his right.

Gage couldn't see the throng of reporters and cameramen that had converged between them and the patrol car. He had a gauze bandage wrapped over his eyes.

John heard dozens of ridiculous questions being thrown at him and decided it was time to start answering some of the more reasonable ones.

"What happened to your eyes?"

"Nothing!" John answered truthfully.

"They just put some drops in them," Jim elaborated—er, lied. "They'll just be extremely sensitive to light for a few hours."

"How were you treated during your captivity?"

"Like a captive."

"Were you mistreated?"

"I, uh, guess they could've been a lot worse."

"What were your thoughts while you were in the hands of those men?"

"I thought of ways to get out of their hands."

"How do you feel now that it's over?"

"Tremendously relieved...hungry...and thirsty. "

"Is it true you were kidnapped three times?"

"I guess so."

"Why did they keep kidnapping you?"

"Probably because I kept getting away."

"Do you attribute any of your success at escaping to your experience as a fireman?"

"My firefighter training definitely helped, but mostly it was desperation." He turned to Rockford. "It's amazing what you can do when you have to."

Jim smiled.

"Why did those men kidnap you, Mr. Gage?"

Mr. Gage smiled. "I thought you'd never ask. They thought Victor Nardis had given me the whereabouts of three million dollars."

"Did he?"

John shrugged. "He might have."

"You're not sure?"

"I was taking his blood pressure and had my stethoscope in my ears. I couldn't hear anything but 'boomp—boomp' 'boomp—boomp' 'boomp—boomp'. I probably performed the most expensive examination in medical history. The three million dollar blood pressure check."

"How did you ever convince them that you didn't know where the money was?"

"They used sodium pentathol on me—truth serum. I _was_ afraid they were going to beat me to death."

"Once they found out you couldn't tell them where the money was, why didn't they just kill you?"

"They hadn't given me any food or water. They left me at the second place thinking I would be dead—in just a few days." John swallowed hard. "Pamela Court came to my rescue…" he reached out.

The heroine placed her open palm in his, and he gave her hand an appreciative squeeze.

"I, uh, would still be kidnapped, if it weren't for LA's finest,**"** he paused, grinning, "private investigator, Mr. James Rockford. Mr. Rockford took a bullet for me. He saved my life…" he wriggled his freed forearms, "and my wrists. He got those blasted handcuffs off for me. I'd like to thank my friends at Station 51 for getting Mr. Rockford involved in my case. I'd like to thank Pamela Court for all her...support. I'd like to thank the marvelous lady at 321 Cove Road for helping me and Dr. Wilson for letting me go." He struggled desperately to keep a straight face. "Oh, and I'd like to thank the LAPD…for the lift home." He pulled the bandage from his eyes and turned to Krieger. "Let's get outta here—before they find out who the paramedic is." John gave Pamela's hand another squeeze. "Goodbye, Pam. And thank you—again**.**"

"Goodbye, John..." the girl said and kissed him on his bruised cheek.

"Ji-im?" the paramedic turned to the private eye and extended a free hand.

Rockford took it and shook it. "Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye...and thanks—for everything. I hate to say this, but I hope I never need to use your services again!"

"That's quite all right," Jim assured him and held up his bandaged arm, "because I feel the same way about you!" he teased, and the two friends exchanged grins.

Krieger wheeled him through the media mob and over to his squad car.

The reporters and cameramen turned their attention to Pamela and Rockford.

Gage took his IV units and climbed into the back seat.

The nurse came running up with a clipboard full of medical release forms. She looked around. "Where's the paramedic?" she asked.

Krieger pointed to the body sprawled across his back seat.

The nurse looked thoughtful and then astounded. "Mister Gage! Dr. Wilson will never go along with this!"

"Yeah..." Mister Gage said, snatching the clipboard and pen and carefully signing the release forms. "I know! And that is why he must _never_ find out**!**"

The girl smiled.

The paramedic passed her back the clipboard, grinned and winked.

She closed the car door and Krieger drove off.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

At Police Headquarters in downtown LA…

Becker gave Gage back his wallet.

John gave Becker his statement.

The Sergeant listened to the kidnap victim's story about Doc McKenzie.

The paramedic picked his kidnappers out of several line-ups, signed a mess of legal complaint forms, and asked about Andy.

Becker informed the fireman that Andrew Ruger was still at large. Dennis also told him that he would be notified by subpoena when it was time for him to testify in court.

The detective then sent his exhausted witness on his way—home.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Around three o'clock in the morning, clear over on the other end of the County…

Krieger pulled up and parked his patrol car behind Los Angeles County's Fire Station 51.

"You _live_ here?" the officer asked his dozing passenger.

The paramedic opened his eyes, sat stiffly up, stared out at the familiar site and smiled. "Half the time...yeah."

The officer gasped in frustration. "I'm supposed to take you _home_!"

"You have," John assured him and reached for the door handle. There wasn't one. "Believe me, you have. That's my car right there. I'll drive myself the rest of the way."

Krieger pulled the back door open for him.

"Thanks." John took his IV units and stepped out into the parking lot. "Why don't you stay here with me tonight?" he glanced at his watch. "This morning?"

"Nahh...thanks anyway. But I don't want to disturb the firemen."

The fireman seemed amused. "Don't worry about that! They're probably not even here. And, even if they are, it would take an alarm to disturb _them_."

"You sure?" the asleep on his feet—e-er, seat police officer asked.

Gage nodded. "Go on! Pull your car right in there next to mine and I'll get the door."

John stepped up to the portal and stuck the IV units between his teeth. He pulled several sets of keys out of his pockets and held them up to the back porch light. 'Station 51,' he identified one as, and replaced the others. He inserted the selected key, opened the door and stepped into the big, empty garage.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Krieger followed him into the empty brick building. "How did you know they wouldn't be here?"

The fireman led the policeman over to the sleeping quarters. "For some strange reason—unknown to firemen—buildings _like_ to burn at three o'clock in the morning! Which is usually why the only sleep a fireman gets is when he's off duty." He saw the untouched bunks. "Must be a busy shift. They haven't even gotten to bed yet."

Henry was sleeping on John's bunk. He spotted Gage, let out a yelp of sheer delight and sprang from the bed to give him a spectacular 'welcome home' greeting.

"Henry!" the paramedic stooped down to the wriggling blob of ecstatic dog's level. "You missed me!"

The really happy hound tried his best to throw his 55 lbs. into the fireman's outstretched arms. Then, failing that, he let out an odd whine—sort of a cross between a growl and a whimper.

"Well," John affectionately informed the dog, "I missed you, too, kid!" He turned to Krieger. "Go ahead! Pick out a bunk and turn in." He gave Henry one last scratch behind the ears and then started tearing the tape holding his IV's in place—off. "I've got to get rid of this _garbage_," he smiled, "and wash the sand out of my hair!" he added and headed for the showers.

Henry trotted off after him, wagging his tail.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Gage strolled back into the sleeping quarters of Station 51 fifteen minutes later. He was all cleaned up and rid of his IV paraphernalia.

He went over to his bunk and sat down. Henry followed him, jumped up onto the bed with him and rested his head on the fireman's lap.

John patted the dog and watched with wide eyes as the officer across the main aisle from him, set his holstered gun down beside his pillow before climbing into bed. "You're going to sleep with that thing?"

Krieger nodded and pulled the covers up to his chin. "Good night—e-er, morning!"

"In that case," Gage swallowed hard and started stripping, "pleasant dreams!"

**TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Twenty minutes later, Captain Stanley and his crew returned to the Station.

Chet climbed wearily down from the Engine. "I'm gonna go see if there's any news on Johnny," he somberly said and started heading for the radio in the rec' room.

The rest of the soot be-smudged firefighters stared after him for a few solemn seconds and then silently filed off in the direction of the washroom.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

The crew straggled into their darkened sleeping quarters ten minutes later, washed up, inside and out. After fighting a warehouse fire for nine hours straight, the firemen were literally asleep on their feet.

"Why is it," Marco asked no one in particular, "there's never anyone available to relieve us, but we're always getting called to relieve other crews?"

Stoker groped his way over to his bunk and started sliding the suspenders of his bunker pants off. "Chet's always bragging up our bionic bodies. Maybe THEY are beginning to believe him?"

Brice managed a skeptical snort.

Roy stepped out of the bottom half of his turnouts and stared off across the aisle at his partner's bunk. Through the dim light filtering in from the doorway to the garage, he discerned a familiar form sprawled out upon the bed. DeSoto stood there in the dark, looking and feeling very depressed. "Henry's still keeping his vigil..."

John let out a weary sigh. "You guys wanna keep it down? You're gonna wake up Krieger!" he warned in a whisper. "And he's got an awfully fast draw when he's startled!"

The men had frozen at the sound of their missing friend's sleepy voice. They stood there for a few moments—too shocked to move or speak.

"Ga-age?" Captain Stanley called out in amazement and numbly reached out to flick on the dorm lights.

The room brightened and the guys all gazed down at Gage as though they were looking at a ghost.

"Yeah, Cap?" John called back, propping himself up on his elbows and opening his hurting eyes a crack.

Kelly came racing into the room. "He's alive!" he enthusiastically declared. "He's alive!" When no one reacted to his joyous revelation, he followed their gazes over to Gage's bunk...and did a beautiful double take! "Baloney?"

Gage grimaced and pressed a finger to his cracked lips. "Shhhhhh!" he warned, then he pointed to Krieger's snoring form and whispered, "He's sleeping with a _gun_!"

The firemen looked even more shocked.

"What are you doing here? You okay? Who's Krieger?" his happy partner pondered in one long whispered breath.

The rest of Station 51's equally ecstatic crew congregated around Gage's bunk, anxiously awaiting some answers.

"I was trying to sleep. I'm fine. And that's Officer Krieger from the LAPD. He drove me home."

Stinky stood there with a silly grin on his face. "I don't believe it...We thought you were dead!"

"Well, I'm not," John assured them. "But you guys sure must be!" He fluffed his pillow, straightened his blankets and dropped back onto his bed. "So what da yah say we all try ta get some...sleep," his squinting eyes closed and he was instantly asleep.

His friends just stood there for a few more moments, resting their hands on their hips and exchanging smiles and grins.

"You heard the man," Stanley whispered. "Let's all try to get some sleep!" The Captain crawled into his bunk, flicked the overhead lights back off, and then lay there, grinning up at the ceiling.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Less than three hours later…

The sun came filtering through the dorm windows.

Henry got up from the foot of John's bunk, walked over the fireman's sleeping form and nuzzled him in the back of the neck.

Gage grinned and snickered. Then his eyes snapped open and he jerked awake. He stared across the aisle at the sleeping figure of his fellow firefighter and friend—and untensed. He flashed his unconscious partner a warm smile and then turned his gaze to the jumpy cop just across the center aisle. He saw Krieger sleeping with his head on his holster and his smile broadened back into a grin.

Henry whimpered and nuzzled the back of his neck again.

"Okay! Okay!" John whispered irritatedly. "I'm up! I'm up!" He went to get up. He couldn't move. "Henry, will yah get off my back?"

The dog dropped obediently to the floor.

The fireman still found it extremely difficult to get out of bed. He just didn't have the energy to move. Somehow he managed to slip into his clothes. He picked up his shoes and went to stand.

Waves of dizziness came over him. He shook the cobwebs from his whoozy head and started stumbling over to the door to the apparatus bay.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

John sat down on the back bumper of the Squad, to put his shoes on. "We're not gonna make it to the park this morning," he told the whining dog and reluctantly got to his feet.

The paramedic took Henry's leash from a hook on the rec' room wall and began heading for the front door with it.

The happy pooch beat him to the door and pawed excitedly at it.

Gage clipped the leash to the dog's collar and watched as the Basset hound's entire body quivered with anticipation. He smiled, shook his head, dropped the leash and opened the door.

The dog dashed out onto the front lawn and ran in tight little circles, sniffing the grass and wagging its tail.

John sat down on the front porch to watch him. He took in several deep lungfuls of the crisp morning air. The extra oxygen helped clear his head.

Henry sniffed every square inch of the lawn before trotting over and saluting the flagpole. He kicked up some turf with his hind feet and headed for the porch at a regal trot. The dog grabbed a hold of the fireman's pant leg and started backing up, growling and grumbling ferociously.

John braced himself and hung onto the porch for dear life. "Not today, Kid! I couldn't even make it across the street!"

Henry stopped tugging and reluctantly relaxed his jaws.

The paramedic's leg dropped and he pulled it back.

The disappointed pooch trotted past Gage and back into the garage, grumbling disgustedly beneath his doggy breath.

The fireman stared after the grumbling mutt, looking utterly amazed. Then he snickered, got slowly to his feet and went back inside the Station himself.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

The first member of Captain Donnelly's B-Shift crew arrived just as the Station's 'wake up' tones sounded.

"What's that squad car doing out in the parking—?" Bob Curen stopped right in mid-question as he finally realized who it was that he was questioning. His jaw dropped. "Gage? You're supposed to be _dead_!"

Gage gave his fellow paramedic an incredulous stare. "Gee…Sorry ta disappoint you."

The fireman flashed him back a grin.

Captain Stanley and the rest of his crewmates came stumbling into the garage just then—looking half-asleep on their feet. They shuffled wordlessly past the two paramedics and disappeared into the day room.

One of the two completely ignored persons turned to the open doorway, looking tremendously disappointed. "Is Henry the only one around here who's glad to see me?"

Chet poked his head back into the apparatus bay. "You were the first one up, John! Why didn't you put the coffee on?"

John looked rather indignant. "Didn't anybody _miss_ me?"

"For Pete's sake, Gage! You were only gone _four_ days!" Kelly reminded the pouting paramedic and then he disappeared back into the day room.

The ignored fireman looked even more forlorn. "Well…I _missed_ yous," he quietly confided.

Curen gave his sad colleague a sympathetic pat on the back and then watched as a police officer came running out of the dorm with his shirt unbuttoned and his holstered gun slung over his shoulder.

"Goodbye, Mister Gage!" Krieger shouted. "And thanks for the use of the bed!"

"Whoa-oah!" Mister Gage latched onto the policeman's arm as he raced past them, and pulled him to a stop. "What's your rush? Stick around…have a cup a' coffee...some break—"

"—Can't!" Krieger interrupted and slipped his arm free of his gracious host's grasp. "Becker'll have my hide if I don't get that squad car back in time for morning roll!" The officer backed out of the garage and bumped into Captain Donnelly. "Excuse me," he told Donnelly on his way out the door.

Donnelly looked puzzled then he turned to John and gave him a pleasantly surprised look.

"Humph!" Gage grunted. "When he bumped into _me_, he pulled his _gun_!" The perturbed paramedic turned away from the back door and started heading for the day room. He met up with his Captain, who had gone out to fetch the morning paper.

"Congratulations, pal!" Hank told him. "You made the front page**—**again!" He flashed the frowning photogenic fireman the picture, and then they strolled into the rec' room together.

John got a few handfuls of hastily made confetti dropped onto his head and a bottle of very cold water spilt down the back of his neck.

"Ta da!" Chet shouted.

Gage shivered. Then he lifted his soggy head up, shook some of the confetti from his hair and opened his eyes. He grinned, seeing his grinning friends huddled all around him. "You **did** _miss_ me!"

"Well, of course we _missed_ you, yah twit!" Stanley assured him. "It's been like a morgue around here!"

There followed much backslapping, handshaking, and wisecracking.

When things settled down some, John crossed over to the kitchen sink and poured himself a tall glass of water. He gulped it down…then another...and another. Next, he stepped up to the fridge. "What's to eat in here? I'm famished!"

"Forget the fridge!" Lopez told him and held the appliance's door shut. Then he took Gage by the shoulders, ushered him over to the table and sat him down. "Chet's already fixed up something _special_—just for you."

Kelly placed a plate down in front of him.

John stared down at the dish's contents and broke into a broad grin.

Chet's _special_ something was a big bologna sandwich!

The famished fireman was about to thank Stinky for his first meal in four days, when a sharp, searing pain suddenly shot through his left temple.

Gage grimaced and shut his eyes—tightly—in an attempt to block out the horrendous hurting in his head, but the pain remained and soon became unbearable.

John groaned—involuntarily—and started reaching for his aching head.

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

"TV versus Reality"

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Meanwhile, in Rampart's ICU Room 604…

DeSoto heard his partner groan and glanced up from the book he was reading.

In the four long days since he'd first begun his bedside vigil, Roy had heard many such groans.

However, this was the first one that was also accompanied by movement in one of the patient's extremities. The off-duty paramedic tossed his book aside and sprang to his feet.

Gage groaned again, as someone suddenly latched onto his wrist and prevented him from touching the source of all his misery—his throbbing left temple. The now frustrated fireman forced his eyes open and was not surprised when they finally focused upon his partner. He'd somehow sensed it was Roy who was keeping a firm grip on him.

The two friends locked gazes.

"Welcome back, Johnny!" DeSoto declared with a grin, seeing the recognition in his partner's pain-filled eyes. Speaking of pain, the senior paramedic reached over and pressed the nurses' call button.

Speaking of recognition…

Johnny groaned again, as he gradually became aware of his surroundings.

The white-walled, windowless room they were in smelled of disinfectant and freshly starched linen. There were side-rails attached to his bed and plastic tubes attached to his body.

Put them all together, they spelled RAMPART.

Not a bad place to visit, but he didn't wanna live there! "What…happened…_this_ time?" he wondered wearily, in a cracked, hoarse whisper.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Roy inquired right back, and placed several small chunks of ice on his partner's parched lips.

Gage managed a slight smile, as the ice began melting, and the cool, refreshing liquid began lubricating his parched palate and soothing his incredibly dry, irritated throat. He gave his thoughtful nurse a look of undying gratitude and then lay there, looking about as thoughtful as the persistent, painful throbbing in his forehead would allow. "I was just about to eat the sandwich Chet had made for me…when my head suddenly started hurting—really, _really_ bad…like right now."

Roy contemplated his partner's confusing comments over for a few moments, and then quickly rephrased his question. "Can you remember anything _besides_ that?"

John nodded and proceeded to tell his questioner everything that he could remember—beginning with the plane wreck rescue—and ending with the bologna sandwich.

DeSoto just stood there, through the entire narrative, with one eyebrow arched and his jaw slack.

There followed a long silence.

Which the ICU Nurse shattered, by finally putting in an appearance.

"Sorry it took so long," she apologized. "We had two code blues right in the middle of a shift cha—You're awake!" the woman exclaimed upon peering into the patient's pain-filled, **open** eyes. "Roy, can you get a set of vitals? Great!" she determined, seeing DeSoto's nod. "Then I'll go find out what pain meds the doctor has ordered for him," she announced and handed the vertical paramedic her stethoscope and a chart.

Roy was really worried about his partner. However, he waited until the two of them were left alone again, before voicing his concern. "Johnny...you **do **realize that James Rockford is just a character on some TV show…Right?"

A strange look suddenly came over the horizontal paramedic's pale, pain-filled face…closely followed by one of embarrassment…and, finally, by one of profound sadness. Johnny hated losing friends—even imaginary ones. "So then, what _did_ happen?" he quietly inquired, finding it curious that he could remember something that had never really happened _so clearly_…and yet he couldn't recall something that really had happened _at all_.

DeSoto paused in his patient assessment to paint his rather _lost_ looking partner a more realistic picture of what had transpired. "We were working a structure fire Friday night. One of the rooms you were searching flashed. We figure you must a' landed on your head...or got brained by a piece a' flying debris. You've been semi-comatose for the past four days. Yah know, now that I think of it…when I came up to check on you that first night, I noticed that somebody had turned the TV on in here. And, I'm pretty sure 'The Rockford Files' is on Fridays."

The recently brained fireman thought all that over for a few moments and then said, "No wonder I'm so hungry! I haven't eaten anything in _four days_! Can you go rustle me up somethin', Roy? Like, say a nice, thick, chocolate malt?"

Roy finished gathering vitals and flashed his perpetually famished friend a broad grin. "You sure you don't want me to bring you a big bologna sandwich?" he teased, but then quickly tacked on, "Na-ahh…on second thought, you're already full of baloney!"

Gage gave his grinning partner a 'ha ha…very funny' glare. "Oh, and will you _please_ **unplug** the TV**?**" he pleaded, a trace of desperation in his cracked, hoarse voice.

"With pleasure, Johnny!" Roy promised his frantic friend. "THEY say, too much television can be _hazardous _to your health!"

"Tell me about it…" his pained partner grumbled back, speaking just beneath his breath.

—**The End—**


End file.
